


Dissonant Verses

by purrfectj



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, I pair up everyone because I love love, Loss of Virginity, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Woman of Faith, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 98,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrfectj/pseuds/purrfectj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Control is everything when you're a mage of the Circle. Born a noble, not the heir or the spare, and the only girl, Meera Trevelyan has spent most of her life in one type of cage or another. When she's given the ability to be something more, can she abjure the teachings of a lifetime? - Cullen/F!Trevelyan, multi-chapter fic</p><p>Newest chapter: <em>“The son of a dog went to Val Royeaux to attend a hanging.” Leliana rose from behind the desk, sliding the parchment into a messenger tube and sealing it up with a loud pop. “If he is lucky, it will not be his own.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Threnodies 8.13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threnodies 8.13:   
> _And So is the Golden City blackened_  
>  _With each step you take in my Hall._  
>  _Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting._  
>  _You have brought Sin to Heaven_  
>  _And doom upon all the world._

They all checked on her in their turn, this unknown mage, this prisoner, this survivor, that had been forced into their midst while they mourned. Adan was doing all he could but he was not, as he kept explaining to anyone who would listen, a healer.

Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, exotic and fussy, would tell him some hilarious anecdote from court life while she watched the still, so pale woman out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes she would rearrange the medicines on the side table.

Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, stern and handsome, would pace near the bed alternately muttering curses and prayers to the Maker and to Andraste. Adan wasn't sure if she were hoping the patient would recover or die. He didn't think she knew, either.

Spymaster Leliana, pretty and calculating, would only peak in, assure herself the alchemist had what he needed, and then she'd be off once more to attend to her ravens.

The two adventurers, Varric Tethras, de facto prisoner of Cassandra and dwarf, and Solas the apostate elf, even took a turn.

Solas would spend hours probing at the green glowing mark on the woman's left hand, sometimes murmuring in elven to himself, sometimes making notes in a tattered journal, sometimes casting spells over her. Healing spells, Adan thought, but couldn't be sure. Sometimes, the elf would simply watch her breathe and appear lost.

Varric was unable to do much more than mutter, "This shit is weird," and then offer to bring Adan a drink from the tavern. Adan appreciated the thought and the gesture.

Over the three long days of her convalescence, Adan did not leave them alone with his patient. It wasn't that he didn't trust them, exactly, it was that she needed constant care and attention. Only, he would make an exception for Commander Cullen Rutherford. When the handsome and stoic man would come to call on the survivor, Adan would always excuse himself for a bit of air. Partly it was due to the fact that the Commander just took up so much space and there wasn't a lot in the small log house. More, though, it was the way he would stand near the bed at attention, as if on Vigil. Adan wondered if the Commander considered the mage a danger to Haven. Could she become an abomination while out cold? Adan didn't know but he trusted the Commander to keep them safe.

Cullen wasn't entirely sure why he kept visiting the prisoner. Adan had informed him she'd muttered about too many eyes, something about 'the grey', but he could detect nothing from her except the boiling edge of the magic from the mark on her hand. If she were consorting with demons, the mark was effective at hiding her from his sight. On this, the third day since the Conclave had shattered, Cullen was beginning to wonder if she were going to wake at all.

He sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and felt suddenly weary. If she were guilty of killing the Divine, of destroying the Conclave, he would have a hand in her execution. That was justice. Solas, however, felt the mark on her hand might be the key to closing the huge tear in the sky. If she were guilty and yet could atone for her sin, could he condone her death? And if she were innocent, another in a string of innocents who kept dying on his watch, what then?

Watching as the garish green light sparked and flared and undulated from her left hand, leaving her face alternating in illumination and shadow, he found himself murmuring, "You have brought Sin to Heaven. And doom upon all the world." Leaning down, he brushed the pads of his fingers over the palm of her unmarked right hand.

The small fingers spasmed, tried to grasp at his. Surprised, Cullen allowed the movement, saw her eyes flutter, heard her whimper as she clutched desperately at his hand. Watching her face carefully, he called out, "Adan! Adan, quickly, she is moving!"

More softly, for her ears alone, he murmured, "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace." Her eyes opened, the color of summer green leaves, beautiful and mysterious, and for one breathless moment they stared at one another. Her voice was soft and sweet, her accent marking her as a member of the Free Marches nobility:

"Many are those who wander in sin..."

By the time Adan arrived moments later with Cassandra and Solas at his heels, the woman had subsided back into the pillows, her small hand still dwarfed by Cullen's much larger one, those gorgeous eyes closed once more.

He did not stay to help when they began discussing moving her to the cells in the Chantry. Instead, he sought out the chapel, and prayed to the Maker and the Mother for guidance.


	2. Andraste 1.11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andraste 1.11:  
>  _And there I saw the Black City,_  
>  _Its towers forever stain'd,_  
>  _Its gates forever shut._  
>  _Heaven has been filled with silence,_  
>  _I knew then,_  
>  _And cross'd my heart with shame._

Spiders. Crawling, chittering, nasty spiders, demon spiders, bigger than a mabari hound, almost the size of a courser, fangs dripping, was that ichor, Andraste save me, this place is wrong, I feel wrong, it hurts, oh Maker it hurts, must get up the stairs, must reach the top, there, a hand, pulling, help me!

Meera Trevelyan woke in her narrow bed at Haven, shuddering and covered in gooseflesh, and simply lay there, trying to breathe, her left hand clutched to her breast.

Two weeks.

Still cradling her scarred and inflamed left hand, she turned onto her side and curled into herself, staring unblinking at the wall. Two weeks since the explosion at the Conclave. Two weeks since she'd been in chains, accused of opening the huge green rift in the sky. Two weeks since she'd attempted to close it and summoned a pride demon. A pride demon, too many memories of her own Harrowing, the fear, the smell of ozone...

She shuddered again and suppressed the whimper that wanted to escape.

Herald of Andraste. That's what they were calling her. She was part of the Inquisition, severed from her old bonds, her Circle broken by Templars, forsaken by the Chantry as a blasphemer. The best, brightest hope to permanently close the breach that had torn a hole in the sky and threatened to kill them all.

"Maker preserve me." Her words were a prayer on the chilly air, her eyes squeezing shut, pulling in on herself even more tightly. She wanted to sink through the bed, into the floor, to hide under the covers, to pretend it hadn't happened.

Herald.

Mark.

Inquisition.

So many people, so many demands, so much pain and loss and fear. Close the breach, Herald, use the mark. Risk your life, Herald.

Be alone completely surrounded by people depending on you to save them.

The staccato rap at her door made her startle, barely suppressing a cry of alarm.

"Herald, the Council asked for your presence in the War Room. There's been a rider from the Hinterlands." The voice was sexless, impersonal, and she knew whomever they had sent would go away without waiting for a response. The Council called and the Herald answered, because that was her duty.

Though the House of Trevelyan's words were officially recorded as "Modest in temper, bold in deed", Bann Trevelyan, current patriach and her father, believed in duty above all things: duty to the family name, duty to the Chantry, and duty to the people of Ostwick. The Circle at Ostwick, where she had been sent when she was twelve, had not loosened the chains of duty, only shifted them.

And now she had more bonds, different, and with less and little hope of meeting anyone's expectations. All their needs crowding at her, when what she preferred, what she craved, was a cup of tea, quill and ink, an hour or four spent quietly in the dusty Circle library, surrounded by the books who never found her wanting.

Meera sighed, scrubbed her right hand over her face, and climbed from the bed. A look toward the window confirmed the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. It was mostly quick work to dress, to wash her hands and face in the water she warmed by magic in the basin. Creating order out of the long, thick, wavy, auburn mass of her hair took a little longer than she would have liked. She supposed if she didn't keep it pinned and braided within an inch of its life, or if she just cut it short, it wouldn't be much bother. Her hair, however, was her one concession to vanity, or truly what little vanity she possessed.

As she plaited and pinned and smoothed by using the small piece of streaky mirror nailed to the wall, she studied her familiar face with a critical eye. The rounded cheeks didn't do credit to the straight, thin, patrician nose. The winged brows might have given her face character if it hadn't been for the stubborn, pointed chin and deep set grass green eyes, framed by long, curling lashes that were neither thick nor particularly dark. And the overall heart-shape of her face was ruined by the high sweep of her forehead, keeping her somewhere this side of stern and that side of sweet, especially as her prettily bowed mouth remained serious and sober more often than smiling and dimpled.

She dressed as carefully as she could in the clothes the tailor had provided, though they left her feeling exposed. The lined brown cotton breeches and tunic were different enough from the mage robes to which she was accustomed without the fact that they proclaimed to the world by their snug fit that she was a curvy woman, bottom, hips, and breasts. The boots, at least, were comfortable, and easy to lace, and she did have a warm, soft, green woolen cloak Ambassador Montilyet had thoughtfully provided. She'd even had a pin in etched silver, one Meera suspected was very old, that she presented to Meera as if it were an honor.

Meera grimaced as she used the pin now to anchor the cloak at her left shoulder: a sunburst skewered by a sword, tip pointed down, and in the middle, an all-seeing eye. The Mark of the Inquisition. Meera couldn't help but feel branded.

So dressed, so armored, she stepped out into the sunrise.

OoO

"If Sister Giselle has asked to speak with me then that is what I shall do and where I shall go. Let that be the end of the discussion regarding the mages and Templars for now."

Cullen knew when he was being dismissed. More, he knew when someone who considered his counsel unworthy was dismissing him: the glance that slid over him rather than settling on him, the cool disdain in the voice, the turning of the shoulder. Knight Commander Meredith had been particularly adept at the maneuver.

"Seeker Pentaghast, I will speak to Solas and Varric about accompanying us. Please join us when you can."

Gritting his teeth, his right hand settling onto the comfort of pommel of the sword at his hip, Cullen watched the Herald nod regally to the room at large, gaze once more looking over his right shoulder rather than meeting his eye, before she quit the room. The closing of the heavy door was careful and controlled, no wasted motion. He would have felt better if she'd tripped over herself on the way out.

"She certainly has … ideas." Cassandra sounded dry as dust, her handsome face caught somewhere between surprise at being so easily ordered about and hope that the Herald of Andraste could do what they required of her.

Cullen snorted derisively and found three pairs of feminine eyes turned in his direction. It was the Inquisition's spymaster, Leliana, who spoke.

"Please share your thoughts, Commander."

"She doesn't have ideas, she has orders."

When three sets of feminine eyebrows rose at his aggrieved tone, Cullen spread his hands and offered an appealing look to each in turn. "Cassandra, you tell me when you interrogated her after the Conclave, her only response was to say, 'Show me this breach.' She doesn't mourn, she doesn't feel anger or regret, she just demands.

"When I thank her for closing the fist rift after the Conclave and saving me and my men, she simply gives one of those regal nods she seems so Blighted fond of, as if I should be grateful she deigned to offer her aid."

Cassandra made no response, though her mouth turned down at the corners.

Warming to his topic now, Cullen began to pace behind the sprawling, heavy war table, his armor creaking with every step, his voice low and full of frustration. "Then there's the pride demon that manifested out of the breach when she tried to close it. According to Varric, she didn't even flinch, no surprise, she simply clenched her fist and set the thing, and half of the floor, on fire before calmly ordering all of you to attack. Varric says it was like she had dealt with one, or more, in the past."

He rounded on Josephine, the Ambassador to the Inquisition, who regarded him thoughtfully but also remained silent.

"Josephine informs us we've all been declared heretics for harboring her, that we've been cut off from Chantry support, that she's being called the Herald of Andraste and she acts as if it's only her due. She doesn't question why her, why the mark on her hand, has absolutely no answer for what happened at the Conclave except she 'doesn't remember'.

"And the mage/Templar question!" Cullen stabbed an accusing finger down toward the war table in the general area of the Crossroads of the Hinterlands, almost knocking aside a carefully placed marker.

"She's a Circle mage whose Circle had to flee from a Templar attack and yet when we attempt to discuss the matter, she acts as if we're bickering like ill-mannered children at a party!"

He paused and balanced his palms on the raised edge of the table, leaning forward for emphasis. "She's acting like the high lady of the House Trevelyan or the First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle and we're her servants."

"She is the Herald, Commander." When he merely glared at Cassandra and she moved to snarl at him in return, Josephine held up a staying hand.

"Commander, Seeker, please. She is most likely still in shock. It has been a … trying … time for all of us." Josephine's voice was conciliatory.

"Josie has a point." When Cullen remained stubbornly silent, Leliana shrugged one delicate shoulder. "Set aside your feelings for now, Commander, if you can. There is work to be done."

Cullen looked toward the door through which the Herald had exited, shaking his head. "What you don't say is we're running out of time. I am concerned she will be a hindrance rather than a help, especially when she begins demanding high tea and a lady's maid."

Josephine muttered, "If she gets a lady's maid and high tea, then I certainly will have both with a scribe, besides!"

Cassandra laughed, a bold bark of sound, and Cullen relaxed, sharing a smile with Leliana. Josephine preened, pleased she'd dispelled the tension.

"All right, then, ladies. I'll see about finding suitable horses for the expedition. Maker watch over us."

OoO

"That is not a horse."

Meera meant for the comment to sound like a gentle jest, especially as the careworn nag was giving Meera her most pitiful stare while the lone stableboy worked busily around her, affixing supplies and tightening straps. Sway-backed and the color of rocks with a dirty white mane and tail, the horse had obviously been well-used in her former life. Now she was being conscripted as a pack animal and, Meera had been informed, as her personal mount.

Though the young stablehand hid a sneer at her frosty tone, Varric laughed and shook his head.

"Better you than me, Princess. I don't do horses." The dwarf was leaning on a pillar of the lean-to shelter, watching the Inquisition suit up for its first foray into the wilds. His packs had already been stowed on the rickety wagon behind another sorry looking horse.

Oh, Maker, what have you done?

How many times had that question been asked in the last few days, Meera wondered? And if she were the answer for everyone else, who or what was hers?

"I should hope not, Varric. That would be odd even for you." The Seeker's controlled tone of voice belied the joke as she strode toward them, hands clasped behind her back. Solas, the slim elf apostate, trailed behind her, carrying a small pack cradled in his arms as if holding a child. Cassandra and Varric sneered at each other companionably, Solas moving past them toward the wagon without acknowledging anyone.

And behind him, pinning Meera with eyes the color of fine Antivan brandy, his disdain written clear, was the Commander. "I offer my sincere apologies, Herald, if the horseflesh isn't quite up to your standards." His voice implied he was anything but sorry.

"There is no need to apologize, Commander." That had apparently been the wrong thing to say as the man's face took a quick turn from glare to contempt. Meera stiffened and turned from him, her belly curling into a hard ball.

She knew the Commander had been the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, knew some of what had happened there. She didn't blame him, precisely, but she had too much experience with Templars to completely feel at ease in his company. It didn't help that at every turn he made his distrust and dislike of her clear.

And he was exceedingly handsome with his chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, beautifully sculpted mouth, aquiline nose, and curling summer wheat hair. Even the scar that scored through one side of his upper lip only added to his beauty. Meera found it difficult to look directly at him, felt herself tongue-tied and addle-brained around him. It made her act much more stiff and formal than she would have liked. She had forever been awkward around beautiful people.

"Curly, leave the poor girl alone." Varric pushed away from his post and sauntered over. "Let's go, Princess, before these poor beasts realize what they're in for."

As Cullen watched, the Herald climbed into the saddle of the maligned horse with efficiency if not particular grace, her curvy silhouette outlined by the mid-morning sun. Something tightened in Cullen, a clenched fist. He didn't like the sensation.

She felt his eyes on her as she turned the horse east. She didn't look back.


	3. Transfigurations 1.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transfigurations 1.2:  
>  _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._  
>  _Foul and corrupt are they_  
>  _Who have taken His gift_  
>  _And turned it against His children._  
>  _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._  
>  _They shall find no rest in this world_  
>  _Or beyond._

A sword went singing over Meera's head. She dodged, barely, and hastily rebuilt the flagging barrier around Varric, Solas, and herself just as Varric's arrow took the Templar in the knee. He staggered and fell, Solas's winter's chill freezing him into place just in time for Meera to shatter him with a quick blast of spirit energy. Cassandra barreled up just as Meera sagged onto her staff, nausea roiling in her gut, all four of them panting, looking about the clearing to make sure no one was still moving.

No matter how many times she used her magic to kill someone, and it seemed to be happening with distressing frequency, Meera could never quite stave off the feeling of wrongness that coated her skin afterward. She gloried in the magic, reveled in how high and strong she could build her barriers, how hot she could make the immolates burn, the intensity of the pain she could inflict with a thought. She gloried, and then she paid with sickness and despair.

From the cradle, she'd been taught that magic all too quickly turned to sin and corruption. Circle life in Ostwick had only entrenched her family's teachings. When faced with the Rite of Tranquility due to her wayward abilities, Meera had learned iron control. Now, it was release the stranglehold or die.

Abjuring the teachings of a lifetime was making her physically ill.

"Take a minute if you need it. Checked ahead, seems to be clear. For now." When the Herald only nodded, Varric clapped her high up on the back. She grimaced at him and nodded her thanks, her knuckles white on her staff.

Varric's respect for the Herald had grown as they'd battled and cajoled and wheedled their way through the Hinterlands. They'd been out in the field almost six weeks. In that time, they'd saved, met with, recruited, and sent Mother Giselle back to Haven, killed game to feed the Crossroads and the refugees who were pouring in from all over Thedas, marked apostate caches to keep the refugees from freezing, and had even come across some strange skulls that revealed even stranger runestones. Varric shuddered every time the Herald stepped up and looked through one of the nasty things.

Her magic skills were nothing to sneeze at; those barriers of hers were unlike any he'd ever seen, and he'd seen his share in Kirkwall with Hawke and Anders. He did find it strange and worrying that she only employed immolate or mind blast as offensive spells and had discussed her abilities at length with both Solas and Cassandra, out of her earshot. Solas had deflected his questions with a half-shrug. Cassandra thought she'd primarily been trained as a healer, perhaps even served time as a scribe. Varric wondered, now, as he saw Meera turn away to retch into the trees as she so often did after a skirmish, if the truth lay somewhere else entirely.

She complained not at all, even after they'd given their horses to Mother Giselle and the Revered Mother's small retinue. She sat her turn at watch, ate the same hard biscuits, stringy charred goat, and hard moldy cheese day after day, carried a pack as heavy as everyone else, and slept with her cloak for pillow and blanket when they couldn't reach a forward camp before nightfall. She acted as healer and apothecary and scribe; he'd even seen her mend a tear in Cassandra's tunic without comment. And yet, Varric couldn't say he knew anything more about her than he had when they'd first met, near the Breach. She spoke little and said less when she did speak. Often, her words were more brusque orders than conversation, but she never asked them to do something she was unwilling to at least attempt to do.

Only letters from Haven seemed to cause any sort of stir from her. He hadn't completely understood why until she'd thrown one to the ground with a disgusted sound and he'd been there to pick it up. It was a dry, precise accounting of how the troops were being trained in Haven, signed in a bold slash, "Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition". Mystified, Varric had finally shown it to Cassandra.

"She asked Leliana in her last letter if the Commander had received the reports she'd found at one of the Templar camps on tactics and troop movements. This is, I believe, Cullen's response to her implied questioning of his skills as a Commander."

"Was she questioning his abilities?"

"Perhaps. As I understand it, the letter writing began when Mother Giselle arrived on our horses. The Commander took it as a slight that the Herald had returned the beasts and told her so."

"Wait. Are you telling me Curly and the Herald are having some sort of fight in letters?"

Cassandra's lip had curled in what might have been a smirk. "I believe so."

"Well, shit." Varric had laughed and tucked the letter away.

"Rather." The memory of Cassandra's widening smirk made Varric smile even now, standing in the little copse of trees surrounded by the small group of bandits they'd obliterated.

"Varric, Herald. Cassandra believes we are only a short distance from the home of Horsemaster Dennet. She wishes to speak to him about providing horses to the Inquisition." Solas's voice was mild, as always, though he sent a disapproving frown in Meera's direction. Cassandra was too busy checking the bodies for identifying papers to notice.

Varric hid his grin as the Herald's head jerked up and her eyes narrowed at the mention of horses. Sidling closer, he whispered, "If you brought back horses, Curl...uh...the Commander would surely be angrier than a sack of nugs." When she smiled at him, brilliantly, revealing a deep dimple in her right cheek, he patted his heart to make sure it hadn't stopped beating. She had a gorgeous smile, all the more so because she used it so rarely.

As she strode purposefully toward Cassandra, Varric laughed aloud. "Oh, Curly, you're in it now."

OoO

"Horses! The Herald has brought horses!"

Not sure he hadn't misheard over the clanging of sword against shield, Cullen grabbed the young woman who was rushing past him as she shouted, spinning her around. Her round face was alight from within, her grin a little silly, as she sketched a salute. "What did you say, recruit?"

"The Herald of Andraste has brought us the promise of horses!" The recruit took Cullen's glower for her lack of respect and saluted again, more smartly. "Ser!"

Waving her away, Cullen could actually hear his teeth grinding together. The promise of horses was not the same thing as actual horseflesh and a horsemaster. If they were lucky, Cassandra had negotiated with Dennet, who had a reputation for shrewdness. If it had been the Herald with her imperious manners… "Take over here, Lieutenant." He didn't wait for a response as he strode away, toward the gates of Haven.

As he walked, he did the best he could to talk himself down from boiling rage to mild irritation. Thanks to Josephine's distant family connection to the Trevelyans and, he suspected, Leliana's spy network, he knew a little more about the Herald than he had when she'd left for the Hinterlands over two months ago.

She was fairly young, nearly ten years his junior at twenty, the youngest child of three and only daughter of House Trevelyan. For all accounts, once Meera had been sent to the Circle in Ostwick at age twelve, her family had not cut all ties. Unusually for a Circle mage, though she was forced to abjure all claim to the Trevelyan lands and titles, she seemed to act as a conduit to allow her family's already wide sphere of influence to spread to the Circle and its Templars. She'd been trained as some sort of scribe or assistant to the First Enchanter; the details remained fuzzy considering the Ostwick Circle had been scattered. As he understood it, it was precisely her family connections that had seen her chosen as the Ostwick delegate to the Conclave.

Knowing more about her didn't make her letters rankle less. She never, ever addressed any of her demands or suggestions to him directly. Oh, no, it was always an innocent question in a letter to Leliana about rations or a veiled suggestion in a polite account to Josephine detailing the latest gold she'd collected. She'd even had the gall to send a letter with Mother Giselle asking outright if the troops needed another healer. Maker take her and her blighted 'suggestions'!

He'd dealt with high-born mages and Templars in the past, those with the haughty disposition and high opinion of themselves which had nothing to do with their abilities or personality but everything to do with their birth. Though he rarely made friends with such people, he had certainly never begrudged them their attitude as long as they could perform their duties adequately. Why, then, he wondered, did this one, this Herald of Andraste, continue to get under his skin so thoroughly?

And then he saw her, standing proud and regal but aloof as others worked around her. Occasionally she would nod or direct someone in their duties, but she did not participate in the hustle and bustle of activity, in fact seemed distant and apart from it. Above it. She wore mage armor that did not appear stained or bloody or torn, her hair carefully in place, her creamy complexion unmarred by sun or wind. Andraste's ashes, had the woman not even helped while in the Hinterlands?

He heard himself growl, actually growl, a low, feral sound, as he stalked toward her.

Meera did not see him coming. She was so pleased with herself for having skillfully negotiated with Master Dennet with little help from Cassandra, so impressed with his knowledge and skill with horses, so enamored of the grace and agility of the handsome bay she'd ridden back from the Hinterlands, she was shocked into an undignified squeak of alarm when the Commander demanded harshly:

"What...have...you...done?"

"I have a horse." She sounded defensive. And stupid. He knew that, she'd wager, or he wouldn't be here, glowering at her. When he snorted, she raised a haughty red brow, gathering her dignity around her like a cloak. "I apologize, Commander, did we not need better horses? Can we not benefit from a horse master with talent, skill, and connections? I've done my best to set us on that path."

"We need a lot of things, Herald." He sounded like he rather wished she wasn't one of the needed things. Too bad for both of them, she supposed; they were stuck with each other.

"What did you promise him for his help?"

Suppressing a sigh at his aggrieved and suspicious tone, she withdrew a folded piece of parchment from the pack sitting at her feet and offered it to him.

He took it and unfolded it automatically. His eyebrows lowered further when he saw it was a map of the farmlands and hills near Redcliffe. She'd written 'Watchtowers' at the top in her neat, precise hand. Three spots were marked with a star, two more with squares, and another two with triangles. To the side, she'd made a small legend: the stars were locations for watchtowers, the squares stone quarries, the triangles stands of trees suitable for logging.

When he didn't say anything, just continued to study the map, Meera said crisply, "I would think sending supplies and workmen, perhaps some extra soldiers for protection, would be best. I spoke with some of the refugees at the Crossroads. They would be willing to work for wages and shelter."

It was a good find, a solid plan, and the watchtowers were in good locations. And he was going to have to admit it. Andraste preserve him; this was likely to make her insufferable. "This is...you..." He cleared his throat when she raised that imperious eyebrow again. The words nearly stuck in his throat. "I will see to it, Herald."

"You...will. Okay, then. Yes." For a moment, they stared at one another. He watched in some wonder as she licked her lips and shifted from one foot to the other. Was she nervous?

"This is a good plan, Herald. Much better than some of your others." Now he was just goading her. To his shock, she blushed, a becoming flush spreading across her cheekbones, even pinkening the edges of her ears.

"Yes, well. Thank you, Commander."

Cullen blinked, realizing he'd been watching the flush spread down the curve of her neck and pondering whether it covered other, more feminine parts. She had lovely, creamy skin, all of that bound up auburn hair, and those eyes...

By the Maker, he couldn't...wouldn't have those thoughts about the Herald! It was his turn to flush, shifting abruptly away, clearing his throat. "I...ah...yes, well. Was there anything else you promised Master Dennet?"

The strange, darkening look in the Commander's eyes coupled with his blush had butterflies taking startled flight in Meera's belly. She had to take a deep breath and nearly squeaked again when it drew his eyes down, toward her breasts. "I…no? I mean, yes, there was, but we already handled it. Before we came back. There were possessed wolves. It was a Terror. Possessing them." She realized she was babbling only when his eyes traveled slowly back up to catch hers, causing the butterflies to swoop and dive dangerously. "We killed the wolves. And the Terror. Now just…watchtowers." When he continued to look, just look at her in a way that heated her blood and set her pulse pounding in her ears, she pointed desperately toward the parchment. "Watchtowers?"

He blinked and the moment was gone. "Yes. I'll see to it, Herald."

"What just happened?" Meera watched as Cullen strode away from her, already calling to someone to set her plans into motion. The handsome bay gelding she'd already named Shartan in honor of the brave elf who had stood as Andraste's friend nickered in response to her bemused query. Shaking her head to clear it, she walked over and stroked his muzzle. He lipped her fingers, clearly looking for a treat. "Glutton," she murmured, fondly.

"He would not expect a treat if you had not plied him with them on our return to Haven."

Meera couldn't hide her surprise as Solas sauntered up, hands clasped behind his back, his voice gently chiding, amusement coloring his violet eyes. The horse nickered again, blowing a noisy breath over Meera's head before turning back to his water trough.

When Meera said nothing, only continued to regard him warily, Solas canted his head and allowed a small smile to bloom. "Why do you not ask the questions? You have so many."

"I am afraid of being rude. There are some things people do not wish to speak about." He was pleased to hear the rueful, apologetic note in her voice. He had thought she was avoiding the knife-ear, not that she worried about offending him. She had such talent and he had such an interest in her abilities, in the mark on her hand. If she continued to avoid him, he could not find out what he wished to know. He was glad, suddenly, that he'd approached her.

"Yes, that is true. If you ask about something I have no wish to share, I do know how to say the word 'no'." He kept his tone as light as possible, trying not to appear too eager. He was not quite expecting, however, the interrogation that followed, but carried out in such a ladylike, easy way he found himself relaxing, even smiling at her when she became quite interested in his talk of spirits.

"You have no fear of the Fade." He tried not to say it with surprise. Most Circle mages he knew felt all spirits of the fades were demons, even those of Compassion or Knowledge, and he said as much. She shook her head and returned his smile with a smaller quirk of her lips.

"It seems counter-productive to fear the very thing by which we gain power. And as you say, spirits are not demons until we attempt to bend them to our will. Or, at least, until we wish them to be something they are not."

"Yes. That is wise." He studied her vaguely relaxed expression for a moment, wondering if their newfound understanding was going to bear the weight of his next line of inquiry. Finally, he could not resist the lure of knowledge. "Your abilities are not minor."

She acknowledged his observation with a slight nod, though the muscles around her eyes tightened. When he continued to hesitate, she said, softly, "You wonder why I cast mostly defensive spells."

He returned her nod, surprised by his own hesitation. She reminded him of something fragile, then, easily broken, as she turned slightly away to look once more at the horse in his paddock. "I was raised in a devout home. Andraste, the Maker, the Chantry: these were all sacred in the eyes of my family."

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him." The quotation was bitter on his tongue, made more so when the Herald winced.

"Yes. Exactly. And the Ostwick Circle is…was very much a place where the Chantry held sway. Those of us who were …" She hesitated, then sighed. "It's a quiet place. Control, defense, healing, these are the abilities they teach. I could choose destruction and Tranquility or control and Harrowing."

"Control with possible death or death."

She nodded at him, slowly. "I chose control."

He wanted to say more, had a lecture on the tip of his tongue, but he read her defensiveness in her posture, in the way her fingers plucked at her robes. He settled for sage advice. "Do not let the Circle continue to take from you." He nodded to her, once, leaving Meera standing alone once more.


	4. Trials 1.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trials 1.10:  
>  _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
>  _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
>  _I shall endure._  
>  _What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

Rules, routine, and ritual had been part of Cullen's life for over two decades. Since the tragedy of the Conclave and as more and more people arrived to join the Inquisition, he believed it was important to maintain as many of the three as possible both for himself and for the forces at Haven. He led an Andrastrian prayer before the morning hike into the hills or around the lake. After breakfast with the troops, he would spend an hour with Josephine and Leliana, discussing whatever Inquisition business needed to be addressed that day. Then he took a walk to the practice yard, to lead, join, or simply watch the drills with blunted weapons. After a solitary lunch during which he would handle as much paperwork as he could stand, he would try to leave his door open for his people. Some of them asked for help writing letters home or to sweethearts. Some just needed to be reminded of the reasons for fighting through prayer or story. Others just wanted him to listen. After taking a final meal with the soldiers, he'd have a meeting with his lieutenants to discuss matters of discipline and morale and to issue orders as needed.

At twilight, he tried to carve out some time for practice for himself. Usually one of his seconds was up for a bout with swords and shields. A couple of the Templars who'd joined their cause would also sometimes agree to a quick exercise. He'd even been approached by one of the apostates who had trickled into Haven and found the older man skilled, knowledgeable, and Blighted-hard to beat. An hour or two spent working his muscles and testing his mettle and abilities against someone else left him ready to face more reports before finding his bed.

It was late at night, when most of Haven was sleeping, that Cullen found rules, routine, and ritual no bulwark against the nightmares.

It always began with pretty young Renee, the elven apprentice formerly of a Ferelden alienage who had been one of his charges at the Lake Calenhad Circle. She'd had a short cap of hopeless raven's wing hair and the largest, brownest eyes Cullen had ever seen. She also had a mouth on her. Snarky comebacks, witty one liners, even the occasional snide remark were wont to pass her pretty mouth. And she could curse like a pirate.

At only nineteen, young, naive, and newly appointed to the Circle, Cullen was instantly infatuated with her. She had loved to tease him, loved to make him turn red to his ears with her sly innuendo, the way she would linger near him, her tall, reed-slender body angled just so, her long, elegant fingers on his sleeve. Raised on discipline, committed to his cause, he'd buried his feelings for her deep, grateful his duties kept him mostly away from her. Cullen had limited experience of women before Calenhad. He'd had only a handful of tumbles, all with a fellow Templar trainee, a woman whom he knew and trusted. While there had been great affection between them, there had been no future in it, no love between them except for the Order. Because of that limited experience the desire for Renee lingered, took on the impossible breathlessness of forbidden fruit.

In his more lucid moments, he knew his infatuation with her would have died a natural death. Renee had little use for anyone or anything which didn't flatter or seduce her and Cullen knew, now, with the experience of time, that he would have tired of her lack of substance. Too, when he'd been chosen to stand vigil at her Harrowing, he'd understood he would have to be a Templar before he was a man. Perhaps her memory wouldn't continue to linger if she had not been one of the first taken by Uldred.

Every night, no matter how many prayers Cullen said to the Maker and his Bride, he was back in the cage with the Desire demon that wore the body of the woman he couldn't have and yet desperately wanted.

"Cuuuulllleeeennnn." Her voice, husky velvet, that sing-song way she'd said his name when she wanted something. He attempted to twist away from her in the dream, attempted to say the words that would send her away. She was always stronger in his dreams, always more wily, always able to slip past his waning defenses. This time she slipped through the wards around him, came close enough so he could smell Renee's scent, roses and musk, see the panic of the girl he'd cared for flicker and then disappear into the burning purple eyes of the Desire demon which held her body in thrall.

"My handsome Templar. We know what you like. We know what you crave." Renee's touch down his arm, no armor in the dream though he'd been wearing it in the Tower. Lust flared to life, unbidden, and a shudder wracked his big frame both in the Fade and where he lay sleeping. The demon always knew his darkest desires, the hidden pockets of himself that ached to forgo honor for the glide of her tongue on his skin, her nails down his back, the sweet release of orgasm between her thighs.

A butterfly kiss to his skin. A slow stroke of long, slender fingers down his neck. The promise of power and violence in the way she pressed him back, the way she slung an impossibly long leg over his hips, the quick nip of her teeth on his ear. Even knowing what she was, even knowing it was the demon who rode him, Cullen strained beneath her, turned to capture her full, ripe mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss.

He was powerless in her hands, unable to resist the tug and pull of desire, the dangerous need for her. From one breath until they next, they were writhing on the floor of his cage, his hands on her hips, hers busy between them, stroking him, electric shocks up and down his turgid flesh. He rolled them over, vying for control, his teeth at her throat, his soul crying out that this is wrong, no, he knew what came next, the horrible things he did and said to her, for her, when the nightmare turned to blood.

"It's a dream, Cullen." Not Renee's voice, not the demon, no, softer, gentle, the crisp consonants of a newer voice.

The Herald's voice.

Shocked into stillness, he stared down into eyes as green as spring leaves, small, capable hands stroking his back, her softer, curvier body shifting beneath him, sweetness and light and a gentler, waiting sort of need. Meera moved beneath him, over him, her hair a waterfall of autumn leaves around them, protecting their lovemaking from prying eyes. As she took him in, as they took each other, she murmured into his ear, "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm."

Cullen woke in his tent in Haven hours before dawn, drenched in sweat, hard and aching, the imagined ripe berry taste of her lips still lingering on his. As he rose, knowing more sleep would be impossible, he knelt next to the bed and murmured, "I shall endure."

oOo

"Did I do the right thing?"

Meera paused, stiffened, then turned to face the Seeker who was using the practice dummies for their intended purpose. It was early morning in Haven, the sun just peeking over the horizon. Solas's last words from the day before had lingered, and she'd stayed awake longer than she should. After a restless night, Meera had woken feeling vaguely unsettled, as if she'd had a dream she needed to remember. It was lost to her, however.

Cassandra's voice roused Meera from the vague memory of hungry lips on her skin.

"What I have set in motion here could destroy everything I have revered for my entire life."

As the Seeker turned to her, regarded her thoughtfully, critically, Meera felt exposed. They had been out in the field protecting each other's lives and yet it was the first personal conversation either of them had initiated. Silence stretched for long moments between them, before finally Meera sighed and spread her hands, palm up, in a gesture of peace.

"I don't know what answer you think I can give."

After another moment, Cassandra turned back to the dummies and crouched, sword in a ready stance.

"Always I have been too brash, too bold, too sure of my own path." The sword slashed down, leaving a gash from shoulder to hip on the straw man. "We must close the Breach. I am sure we are the only ones who can. Others will stand in the fire and declare it too hot."

The next swing caused only a glancing blow to the dummy as Meera murmured quietly and with feeling, thinking of Solas again, "It is too hot."

"You are joking." It was said as a firm statement of fact but the Seeker's dark eyes asked a question.

Meera hesitated, and then stepped closer to the dummy wearing the most grievous injuries. She held Cassandra's gaze as she touched a fingertip to his forehead. With an audible pop just at the edge of hearing, the dummy drifted away into ash.

"There are reasons, good ones, that the Circle trained me as a healer and a scholar and not as a battle mage."

"The Circle stifled you. With your father's blessing, from what I understand."

Meera couldn't hide her shock at the flat statement, especially as it aligned so closely with Solas's judgment of her past life.

Cassandra's lips quirked. "Your skills in the field are impressive, Herald. Whatever the Circle tried to make you, you are more."

When Meera did not answer, face uncertain and surprised, Cassandra sighed and whacked half-heartedly at another of the practice dummies with her sword. "I do not lie to increase your confidence. If you needed to be trained, I would train you myself." Another slash at the dummy which caused its head to tilt dangerously to one side. "No matter the mark on your hand, I would not send you into the field if I did not believe in your skill. And your skill grows with each new challenge we … you … face."

For another long moment, the silence stretched between them, broken only by the sounds of Haven stirring around them, going about the early morning business of running the Inquisition. As Cassandra started to turn away, obviously feeling her attempt at conversation was unwelcome, Meera reached out and grasped the edge of her sleeve. "Seeker...Cassandra. Wait."

They both looked startled at the physical contact but neither pulled away. Meera squeezed her eyes closed briefly, took a deep breath, and her courage in her hands. When they opened, Cassandra was surprised to see a wistfulness there. This girl, this Herald, reminded Cassandra of herself, so closed. Perhaps it was why she sought her out now. The Seeker waited patiently until Meera said, quietly,

"Always, I have been too careful, too serious, bound to walk the path others set for me."

Cassandra nodded, recognizing the echo of her own worry over personal failings. "Yes. But that is what you have known. Now, you can choose to know something different. The Mage Rebellion has given you that."

"So has the Inquisition."

Rolling her shoulders, Cassandra returned to her ready stance, dislodging Meera's fingers. The Herald said what she knew, what she felt in her heart: "You had no choice, Cassandra, but to do what you did. The Inquisition was needed."

"There are always choices." Cassandra tested the weight of the sword in her hand as they both weighed her words. "But you are correct. And if there is a price to be paid, then I will pay it. I just hope it is not too high."

"For what it's worth, Cassandra, I believe in the Maker and that we're doing his work here." At Cassandra's raised eyebrows, Meera smiled, a little. "If there is a price, Cassandra, you will not pay it alone." It was a promise, an opening, a tentative foray into friendship. "Perhaps you would like to break your fast with me this morning? Since we're in Haven rather than the field, I am usually lucky enough to have warm oats instead of cold biscuits."

"I would like that, Herald."


	5. Let Him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day

"Having the Herald address the clerics is not a terrible idea."

Cullen rounded on Josephine as if she'd just suggested a firing squad at dawn. "You can't be serious."

"Mother Giselle isn't wrong; at the moment, the Chantry's only strength is that they are united in opinion."

As Cullen turned away, rubbing his neck in agitation, Meera only dimly heard Leliana's worried question about her safety.

She was so tired. Another mission into the Hinterlands had been required. They'd stopped to speak to Dennet, who had formally agreed to join the Inquisition. He had agreed to wait on the farm until a military escort arrived from Haven. She certainly hadn't been able to provide the protection; instead, she, Solas, Varric, and Cassandra had pushed on into the Witchwood, searching for the alleged stronghold of the apostates who refused to join Grand Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe.

She'd tried appealing to them as a fellow mage. She'd tried threatening them. She'd even tried to recruit them, to Cassandra's frustration and with Solas's approval. So few of them had chosen the Inquisition over death, however, so she'd ended them.

So much blood on her hands.

The ones she'd been able to save had been sent ahead to Haven with Scout Harding, who needed to resupply. During the debriefing, Harding had provided Meera with the location of a Templar camp near the West Road.

"Even with the mages gone, or mostly, they're keepin' these people out of their homes. Ser." There had been an appeal in Harding's blue eyes, one Meera had little and no defense against.

After a heated discussion among her companions which she'd ended by simply turning away from it, they'd tried flying a white flag of truce. More death, more madness, and in the end, Meera and her party returned to Haven with another handful of restless, uneasy recruits, this time Templars.

While on the road, the group had been attacked by bandits. With so many people to protect, Meera and Cassandra had suffered more than the usual scratches and scorches. Even now, the dagger wound on her own hip throbbed in time to the voices bickering around her. She wondered blearily if Cassandra's wrenched shield arm was paining her.

So much needless, senseless violence.

Even this afternoon, newly returned to Haven with firm orders to meet the Council in the War Room, before she even found a bath or her bed, where she planned to sleep for a week, she'd run afoul of the Templars and mages. They were having a shouting match in front of the Chantry. The Commander had separated them but Chancellor Roderick, always quick to lay blame at her feet for the tragedy at the Conclave, had been there to remind Cullen that the Chantry held most of the cards in this terrible game they were playing.

Wait, why were they arguing again about approaching the Chantry? The simmering tensions between the warring factions within their own camp was why they'd had to meet, had to make a decision. Right? The details were fuzzy. As was her vision. She blinked and frowned.

"Let's ask her." Josephine's voice was definite as she, Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen all turned to look at her.

Meera had no idea what had been said in the last few minutes. Her head was swimming alarmingly and she swayed, catching herself with a hand on the edge of the war table. "I'm sorry, what? I can't seem to..."

"Herald!" Cullen was quick but Cassandra was closer, catching Meera as her knees buckled.

"She is burning up with fever." Leliana's voice was matter-of-fact but her touch was gentle on Meera's forehead. While Josephine hovered in worry, Cassandra gratefully let Cullen take most of Meera's weight, her injured arm protesting.

"She was injured in a skirmish with bandits a few days ago. We dressed the wound but she said it didn't need healing."

"And you believed her?" Cullen couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice, as well as the censure. Meera grumbled a little into his shoulder and attempted to pull away from his supporting arm. He tightened it around her, scowling.

"Was all right. Maybe...ow, my head...poison. Didn't think..." She heard herself trail off into mumbling, attempted to rally her flagging senses, and instead was swept up into Cullen's arms.

"Maker take you, Herald. Stubborn woman. Didn't think is right!"

He sounded so angry with her but there was concern on his too-handsome face. With some horror, Meera felt herself reach up and pat him lightly on his stubbled cheek, realized she was smiling at him quite winningly. Then she opened her mouth and some other person entirely must have said, "Aww, Commander, 'salright. Maybe you can kiss it and make it alllll better."

The blush that raced across his cheekbones delighted her and she tried to laugh. Instead, her stomach heaved and she whimpered, giving up any pretense of feeling well and buried her face in Cullen's shoulder. "Awful. Hurts."

Cullen did his best to hide his slick panic and concern as they all trailed in a line through Haven toward her door. Josephine darted ahead to turn down the sheets. Leliana stopped halfway and turned on her heel, murmuring she would collect Adan and Solas. Cassandra strode at his side casting concerned and worried glances down at the Herald, who seemed to have passed out. It seemed an age to Cullen before he was laying her gently in her bed. "Cassandra, where?"

"Left hip, outside."

With calm efficiency but fingers that shook slightly, he unfastened her mage armor and peeled it away, leaving her in tunic and breeches. When she didn't rouse to give orders or make demands or even protest for modesty, Cullen's sense of urgency increased. He untied the strings to her breeches and then gently eased them down, doing his best not to flush or linger too long over the smooth expanse of creamy thighs and softly rounded hips and bottom he'd exposed.

"It's a dream, Cullen." Soft hands, warm words, gentle, berry-flavored kisses, soothing away the pain even as they brought new, sharper, dizzying desire.

Shaking his head to clear it of the dream, Cullen asked Josephine to angle the lantern closer so he could see. He had just removed the dressing when Leliana arrived with Solas and Adan. Both crowded around the bed as Cullen cursed. "Andraste's ashes. Not only poison but deep. Stubborn, foolish woman."

The gash ran from near the curve of her bottom around and up toward her hipbone. It had been meant, he saw, to act as a vessel for the poison. Even now the skin around the wound was virulent purple and yellow, hot to the touch. Carefully he probed the edges, noting it had closed neatly, no jagged edges, with no stitches. The Herald's work, he wondered?

"We are going to have to re-open the wound." Solas's voice was matter of fact, his own pale fingers hovering lightly over the Herald's skin, glowing faintly. "I will help her sleep more deeply."

"That looks like bloodbane. See how the color streaks?" Leliana leaned closer for a moment, gesturing, then nodded. "Yes, bloodbane. You should open across the wound in small cross-hatches."

"I'll make a poultice to help draw out some of the poison."

As Adan left, Cullen reached back for his dagger. Josephine made a startled noise and turned away. Leliana watched with interest as Cullen followed her suggestion, making a series of x-shapes over the wound, using the bandages Cassandra handed him to gently blot away the blood and pus and sticky grey ichor that began to trickle out.

Adan returned in moments and helped Cullen position the poultice over the wound. "It will have to be changed often, every half hour or so. There's more on the desk by the door in the jar. Some more bandages, too."

"I'll stay with her." Because he was focused on making her more comfortable in the bed, Cullen missed the looks that passed around the room. He did not miss, however, how the Herald whimpered in her magic-induced sleep, how she attempted to turn away from the pain. He soothed with a gentle touch to her cheek, his stomach clenching when she murmured softly, the frown between her brows relaxing at his touch.

He barely heard the whispered conversations around him, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He took the dampened cloth he was handed, using it to cool her brow, nodded absently when Cassandra murmured, "She should have some blood lotus tea. It will help with the fever."

She looked so small lying in the bed. Though curvy with firm, lean muscles, she was not a tall woman. When they stood toe to toe, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Now, curled on her side, her wound dribbling out poison and lifeblood with every beat of her heart, she looked innocent and vulnerable.

Her calming presence in his nightmares suddenly seemed blasphemous.

Like so much of his life.

For the rest of the evening and well into the middle hours of the next day, the Inquisition cared for its Herald.

Cullen remained at her side, changing the poultice as directed by Adan, stroking a cool cloth across her heated skin, soothing her with words and prayers when she stirred.

Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra came in shifts to help dribble tea into her mouth, to bring clean bandages, to make sure Cullen had food and drink.

Solas kept her dreaming, increasing the flow of healing magic and reducing the drugging sleep by careful increments with each recast.

Varric even stopped by to check on her sometime around breakfast. "This feels familiar, eh, Curly?" he muttered to Cullen, who nodded. "At least this time you won't throw her in a cell when she's better."

Cullen grunted in response, secretly glad that was true.

Finally, the blood leaking from the cuts he had made was back to its proper ruby color, the skin around the wound cool and pale once more.

When Adan and Solas arrived, they declared the treatments a success.

"She is sleeping without my aid now. I suspect she will wake tomorrow hungry and sore." Solas gave Cullen a measured, searching look. "You should rest, Commander."

Cullen scrubbed a hand over his face and nodded, rising from the bed with the creak and pop of muscles, bones, and tendons held too long in one position. As he turned to go, he hesitated, sent one last glance at the sleeping female form in the bed. "Solas..."

The slim elf bowed his head, once. "We will not tell her you were here, Commander."

When Cullen found his bed not too much later, it was Meera who was taken by the Desire demon, Meera who lay bruised and battered, so still after a firestorm of magic and lust and blood. When he tried to turn away from his handiwork, tried to wake, disgusted and heartsick, she reached out to him, those impossible green eyes opening, faith and gentleness and desire. "Stay with me, Cullen."

He slept, dreamless, until mid-day.


	6. Transfigurations 10.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tansfigurations 10.1:  
>  _The one who repents, who has faith,_  
>  _Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_  
>  _She shall know true peace._

Val Royeaux was confusing, frustrating, and wondrous.

Meera hated it. She hated the masks, the deceptions, the disgust of the Templars and most of all she hated the public renunciation she, and by extension the Inquisition, received from the Chantry.

Whatever her failings, and they had been many even before she was named the Herald of Andraste, Meera believed. She believed there must be some guiding force larger than her, larger than Thedas, larger than the world, believed that though the Maker had turned his face from his children, his Bride Andraste continued to care for and guide His people.

She'd believed as a child in the cold hall of her father, where she was not the heir, not the spare, and not the daughter either of her parents wanted.

She'd believed while she lived in the Circle, where she was no longer a noble but still a Trevelyan tool. Where her father used her as carrot and stick, depending on his whims. Even as Andraste and the Maker were exploited to keep her magic contained, she believed and she prayed and she did not blame the Templars, completely, who watched her askance, expecting an abomination.

Her faith had been shaken when she'd stumbled out of the Fade, battered and not quite whole, her left hand aflame. As she stood now, in the sunny marketplace of Val Royeaux and watched the Templars march away from their duty while a Revered Mother asked if she was satisfied with her victory, Meera curled her hands into fists. The air around her crackled, magic from the Mark on her hand suddenly filling the space with eerie green light. A murmur of fear ran through the crowd.

Cassandra, Solas, and Varric stepped up to range themselves at her side. Surrounded as she was by the magic of the Mark, she felt each of them as abstracts: Solas's calm, Varric's ease, Cassandra's might. As they stood together, prepared to fight for these people who looked upon her with fear or disdain, memory crashed into Meera.

Everything was grey. Not smoke, not clouds, just an endless miasma of grey, like the Fade and yet...not. If there was emotion, she felt it only dimly, impressions of what she knew should be agony or distress or fear. She was a memory of a ghost here, formless and nameless and lost.

How long had she been lost?

Time pressed, a heavy weight on her chest, each pump of her heart sluggish, out of tune.

Dissonant.

Eyes blinked slowly from a tree that hung suspended, roots for branches and sky for floor. Some creature larger than a cathedral yet fitting into the eye of a needle had too many eyes, all in the wrong place.

Too many, not enough, sands trickling in the hourglass, lost forever.

A touch, featherlight, tugging at her. A voice, male, gentle, weaving the threads of her together, a braid of faith and hope and charity.

"The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace." Meera's voice rang out across the crowd in the Val Royeaux market, simple and pure and sweet.

Limned in crackling green flame, she remembered faith.

She believed.

oOo

When they returned to Haven after a week of politics and recruitment in Val Royeaux and at a salon hosted by Madame de Fer at the Ghislain estate, Josephine met them at the gate, looking incredibly frazzled. "You have sent me a strange elf girl and a First Enchanter and accepted an invitation to meet with the rebel mages in Redcliffe. Please tell me there are no more surprises."

"I will endeavor to keep them from happening in such short order next time." Meera tried to sound apologetic but was aware she only managed mildly irritated. She winced at Josephine's narrow look.

Varric snickered. "How'd Curly take the elf?"

Josephine winced but her lovely face was amused. "He has been sorely tried by her penchant for tricks. I think she has made him miss you, Serrah Tethras."

"That'll show him." Varric snickered again before turning to Meera with a little bow. "Herald, I'm going to get a bath and have a pint. If I may."

"Of course. All of you are dismissed. We will take a day or two to resupply before we set out for Redcliffe."

Josephine blocked both Meera and Cassandra before they could escape, motioning a nearby young elven girl closer. "If you would be so kind, Herald, Seeker. A Council meeting has been called. Hester will take your packs to your rooms."

Once the packs had been handed off with murmured apologies for their weight, Josephine began herding Meera and Cassandra up the steps toward the Chantry. Once they reached the door to the War Room, however, she discovered she had a minor rebellion on her hands.

Turning her back to the door, Meera tried to give Josephine a pleading glance. "Ambassador, this is where I tell you no. I want a bath and a proper cup of tea and ten hours in my bed before I even pretend to care while the four of you argue." She nudged Cassandra with her elbow when the Seeker hid a chuckle in a cough. "Tell her."

Cassandra pretended to sniff at Meera's hair. "You do smell of horse."

Josephine gasped, expecting the Herald to be affronted.

Instead, Meera gave Cassandra a good-natured shove, straightening to her full, if diminutive, height as the door behind her opened. "I am a lady. You have insulted me!" The snooty tone was more like the Herald to which Josephine was accustomed, as was the haughty look upon her face. Within the War Room, Leliana's eyebrows winged to her hairline while Cullen started forward, his face darkening.

Cassandra, however, snorted out a laugh. "You are as much a lady as I am."

Josephine was treated to a pretty pout from the Herald along with a long-suffering sigh. Josephine had to stifle her own laugh when Leliana and Cullen stared, amazed and disconcerted, as Meera swanned into the room, nose in the air but a laugh in her voice. "You, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, are rude."

"Yes, well, at least I do not smell of horse."

Meera's laughter filled up the room as the door closed behind them.

The argument was the same. Josephine wanted to recruit the mages. Cullen wanted to recruit the Templars. Leliana and Cassandra reserved their opinion, though each were worried that there was no good choice. Meera finally had to refuse to discuss it until she had a chance to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona. Everyone subsided, which was a first.

Then, of course, they had tasks which only the Herald could complete.

From Leliana, missing Grey Wardens and a possible lead in the Hinterlands. Meera marked the location on her map and promised to detour in that direction on the way to Redcliffe.

From Josephine, a request to answer some correspondence and sign some requisitions. Meera promised her an hour in the late afternoon. After a bath.

From Cullen, a report of missing Inquisition soldiers in the Fallow Mire. Scout Harding had already gone ahead and reported she could go no further, something about walking corpses.

"Of course there are walking dead. Why not? And probably lots of rifts and a dragon. Maybe a bear." Her mutter brought varying degrees of amusement to the four faces watching her so intently. Bright spots of color washed into Meera's cheeks. Meekly, she took the map the Commander offered, avoiding the lingering amusement in his gaze.

She excused herself with a headache.

It was a fabrication until the conversation with Mother Giselle, the strange invitation to the Storm Coast, and the interference with Leliana's duties as Spymaster.

Meera groaned and sank lower into the bath. She had bungled all three conversations fairly badly.

Mother Giselle had been trying to be kind. It was hard for Meera to listen to reminders that even blessed Andraste had not walked alone. The mention of Maferath, Andraste's mortal husband and ultimate betrayer, particularly rankled. She knew her manner kept most men at bay. What most took for hauteur was in reality a shyness of manner, a lack of skill or finesse in the ways of men and women, a belief that she was too awkward, too curvy, too intelligent to appeal to anyone. Even friends had been few and rare, male or female. When your fellow mages viewed you as a lickspittle or a lackey and the Templars viewed you as a threat due to your noble birth and connections, the Tower was very lonely indeed.

The Inquisition was better, at least. She found Solas fascinating if a little intimidating, Varric pleasant and amusing, and in Cassandra she felt like she'd found a kindred spirit of faith with a dash of awkwardness and humor. Sera, the elf with the mouth from Val Royeaux, and Vivienne, the formidable First Enchanter and former adviser to Empress Celene of Orlais were more unknown quantities as yet, but they could be powerful allies. She was proud of herself for recruiting them.

As for the Council members, Meera was still unsure of her ground with all of them. Leliana might even now be thinking of her as a liability, too soft to do what needed to be done. But murder!

Meera murmured unhappily, casting a quick warming spell to the cooling water in the tub. She shouldn't have interfered. She might be the Herald but that was just a title, a fluke. Leliana had been the Left Hand of the Divine, a Blight Companion, a Nightingale of the Imperial Courl of Orlais if the stories were true. Who was Meera, an isolated mage of the Circle, to tell such a woman to handle her spies? But the deed was done, the man who had betrayed the Inquisition had been spared, and Meera might regret the cold dismissal Leliana had given her but she could not regret saving a man's life.

She reached for the soap, working the richly scented bar into a lather and then into the mass of her hair. Iron Bull. Could that really be someone's name? And a mercenary band! What was it Varric kept saying?

"This shit is weird." Meera stifled a giggle at her terrible imitation, sliding under the water to rinse away the suds.

Only the man who'd accosted her outside the Chantry had been serious. Cheerfully so. His armor had nearly burnt her eyes, it had been so shiny, and his mouth hadn't smiled when he'd issued the invitation to come see them in action. She'd said yes. Was she allowed to do that without asking?

With another heartfelt groan, Meera climbed from the tub. She wrapped one towel around her hair and another around her body, wishing wistfully for the scented Antivan body oil she'd had in the Circle. The sun slanting in the window told her she had only a few more moments to herself before she had to meet Josephine, anyway.

As she dressed, as she coiled and braided and pinned her hair, she caught herself humming under her breath tunelessly. It was not a habit of hers. Pausing, she studied her face in the mirror. Color from sun and wind gave her skin a healthy glow. Her eyes were clear and bright, her muscles limber and relaxed after weeks of alternately walking and riding Shartan. She had a new scar on her hip from the poison and calluses on her hands from using her staff. She'd faced the renunciation of the Chantry and come out with her faith stronger than ever. She had friends, a purpose. Her magic was growing, unfettered, and the mark on her hand pained her little and less, a mark of bravery and courage.

"I'm happy."

Reaching out, Meera pressed her fingertips to her reflection in the glass. "I'm happy."


	7. Trials 1.15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trials 1.15:  
>  _I am not alone. Even_  
>  _As I stumble on the path_  
>  _With my eyes closed, yet I see_  
>  _The Light is here._

Josephine winced in sympathy as the Herald signed another letter, flexing her fingers and rolling her wrist with a grimace. "We can stop if you need, Herald."

Meera shook her head, quickly, and held out her hand. "No, of course not, Ambassador. Please, if there are more, I would sign them."

Saying nothing, Josephine handed Meera another tall stack of letters and reports. As the Herald returned to the task, humming tunelessly under her breath, Josephine watched her from across the desk. They were seated in the office Josephine had appropriated as her own, Meera the one behind the desk for comfort.

Truly, not all of the correspondence and orders needed to be signed by the Herald. Cullen and Leliana, for example, were quite capable of signing writs as needed for their own responsibilities and Josephine herself was responsible for obtaining most of the supplies needed to keep Haven functioning. Really, Josephine had the Herald performing such a mundane, unnecessary task so that she could learn more about her.

The Ambassador had been first surprised and then intrigued to discover Meera had made friends with Cassandra. The Seeker was a taciturn individual. She did not give her regard lightly. And the jokes Meera had made both before and during the earlier Council meeting were amusing and appropriate, revealing a sense of humor most of Haven had been sure the supercilious Herald did not have.

Josephine also highly approved of Meera's intercession with Leliana. Her old friend was sliding into secrets and darkness without realizing it, a path down which lay ruin for someone with such a soft heart and strong faith. Though Leliana had been incredibly angry at Meera's insistence on ideals in the face of so many obstacles, Josephine had been pleased to note Leliana had stalked off to the Chantry to pray rather than returning to her reports.

Now, as she watched Meera cheerfully signing endless reports and requisitions and letters, Joesphine wondered if perhaps Andraste and the Maker had known what they were doing when they chose the Herald.

So far, in the first stack, Meera had commented on only two of the many papers she was being asked to sign. The first had been a letter addressed to a distant cousin of the Trevelyans who lived in Val Royeaux. Absently, she'd said, "Cousin Oshar doesn't keep her horses at home but rather in the country. Ask about Kistern in particular, as that's the sire to her current mount." The second had been a writ requesting wool and linen from a merchant near Ostwick. Meera had tsked, shaking her head. "Messere Gillam will send you silk and swear you asked for it if you don't inspect the shipment before you sign for it. Then he'll charge you double for the 'mistake'."

Josephine had known about Cousin Oshar but not about Messere Gillam. A useful piece of information she filed away. Encouraged by Meera's confidences, she probed a little.

"Herald. I would know more about you. If, of course, that is all right."

"It seems I am surrounded by people who suddenly are interested in what I have to say." Meera carefully set aside the quill, aligning it precisely with the stack of parchment.

"Ah. Perhaps we have lost some of our awe of your person?" Josephine kept her voice light and friendly, though she watched the way Meera shifted uncomfortably, unconsciously rubbing the palm of her left hand. The girl was skittish, like a horse who had been broken to the bit with spurs and curses rather than soft words and gentle strokes. Her manners were impeccable, however, and Josephine approved how Meera inclined her head slightly.

"Perhaps." Sighing inwardly, wishing she could have just kept reading and signing the endless pile of parchment before her, she waved a hand lightly toward Josephine. "Please, Ambassador, ask your questions."

For a moment, Josephine hesitated. She didn't have questions, not really, more a request. "I'd like to discuss your parents."

Immediately and without warning, the Herald's face closed down, completely, until she was a cold stranger staring at Josephine. "What of them?"

"I'd like to dispatch a courier asking the banns of House Trevelyan to align themselves with us."

"As devout as my father is, he would be pleased to receive such an invitation." The Herald returned to the pile of parchment in front of her, picking up the quill, clearly dismissing the topic. Josephine tried another tack, suppressing a frown at the Herald's abrupt about-face with only great discipline.

"You are the talk of Val Royeaux, due to your lineage. The fact you are a mage and of the Free Marches seems to have dampened some of the hope for our cause, however."

The Herald made a non-committal noise, signing a page and setting it neatly aside to start on the next.

"Perhaps you find the accommodations lacking with your upbringing."

"No. They are adequate to my needs." Another page joined the growing pile at the Herald's elbow.

"Do you miss the life of your Circle and the Templars? If they are all as handsome as our own Commander Cullen, I could imagine you would." Josephine was inordinately pleased with herself when the quill listed drunkenly to the right before resuming its scratching. "Did you ever wish to be guarded in a more private way by one of them?"

"When you are being watched as if you might perform depraved acts of blood magic at any moment, it is somewhat difficult to form romantic..." Meera's matter-of-fact voice trailed away into nothingness, two sheaves of parchment clutched in her hand. One she held out to Josephine, who took it automatically.

Glancing at it, Josephine realized it was Cullen's request to meet with Horsemaster Dennet personally. She laughed and set it aside. "I suppose this is no longer needed." When Meera made no reply, Josephine looked up to find the Herald pale, her mouth drawn into a thin, firm line.

The piece of parchment she still held was slowly turning to ash with no visible flame.

"Herald!" Josephine was up and around the desk at once. Meera calmly shook the soot from her hand and stood. She was, Josephine realized in shock, shaking, her fists clenched so tightly at her side Josephine was certain she was drawing blood in her palms. The sweet and cultured voice that had been humming only minutes ago was now clipped and forced. Any lingering softness was erased from the Herald's expression.

"Perhaps the next time you plan to write to my father, you should ask in advance of setting the letter before me." Josephine shrank back as Meera pinned her in place with a look of disdain. "He will not send you my phylactery, Ambassador. Bann Trevelyan of House Trevelyan would never relinquish such power."

Meera managed to walk all the way to her cabin, the door half open, before she realized that the mark on her hand was sparking dangerously, sending out seeking tendrils of sharp green light. The happiness of only hours before was gone, shattered by a simple letter to her father and a reminder that she was still a prisoner. Still his, still of House Trevelyan without the title or the respect or the hope, still a mage of the Circle to be tracked and watched, always a possible abomination or maleficar.

Emotion jittered in her belly, panic a slick coating over fear.

A ride, she could go for a ride, burn off...no no, the horses needed a rest, she couldn't be that selfish. She could...what? What could she do that she could let anyone see, everyone here was watching, she was surrounded by people, everywhere, even now she could hear the clash of swords and shields as the soldiers practiced.

The smell of soot and burning wood reached her nose. Where she gripped the door in her uninjured right hand, the wood had blackened, warping. She was leaking magic. She was going to have to find an outlet and the sounds of the clashing swords reminded her she had one, if she could only find somewhere away.

Always, always the Trial calmed her, allowed out what she had such trouble keeping in, even now, older and wiser but no less capable of feeling betrayed by Josephine, by the Council, even by association those she had so earlier named friend.

Slamming her door, she stalked back up the stairs toward the Chantry. The Commander was striding among the recruits, correcting as necessary. "You there! There's a shield in your hand. Block with it. If this man were your enemy, you would be dead."

Slinking around between the tents, she paused near the sword rack, waiting for his back to be firmly turned. She was careful to keep her hands tucked in, away from the canvas. Flames flickered, green in her left hand and red and orange in her right, even through her clenched fists. Finally, her fraying patience was rewarded as the Commander turned to sign a report. Quick as a snake, she grabbed one of the short practice swords and fled.

Surely, surely there was somewhere up in the hills near Haven where she couldn't, wouldn't be found.

He'd seen her go, moving with less than her usual studied grace, a stilted, angry march, holding the sword stiffly at her side, what looked like magical flames licking up the unprotected blade. It alarmed him and made him curious; despite her earlier joking during the War Council, she was so self-possessed.

Leaving his lieutenant in charge of the sparring, Cullen followed her at a discreet distance.

Out the front gate of Haven and to the west, past an empty ruin of a cabin and then up onto a short hill, he followed her, growing more and more concerned as his Templar senses felt the magic she was spilling with each determined step. The sun was starting its descent, blinding him for a moment as he reached the summit. When he could see again, when he could focus, he simply stood and stared.

When a Templar was first training, they were taught both prayers and martial exercises. Often, the two were combined. The Trial of Swords was one of the least favorite among the initiates. One, it required chanting the four verses of the Canticle of Trials over and over again, by memory. Two, it required matching two sword forms to each verse. Three, at each chanting, the practitioner was expected to increase their speed of movement, continue precision of form, and raise their voice to be heard to the Heavens. It was a practice in determination, athleticism, and faith.

The Herald of Andraste, a mage, Meera Trevelyan, was performing the rite, here, on a hilltop outside of Haven with a blunted practice blade, lean muscles taut and straining, face focused and severe, an icon of magic and rage and burning faith.

Cullen watched in astonishment as she moved with efficiency and precision from form to form, the sword an extension of her arm, the Canticle of Trials more song than poem, the grace of her body creating a deadly dance of the Templar exercise. And she knew not only the forms but the rhythm and force, her speed of movement increasing as she reached the end of the Canticle and began again, faster and faster, arms, sword, legs, body an extension of her will. It was a thing of terrible beauty, sweat beginning to gleam on her creamy skin, eyes narrowed, voice musical and pained, rising, rising on every verse, building with each recounting:

Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
Should they set themselves against me.

Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.

Though all before me is shadow,  
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.  
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.  
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light  
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost. 

She was a blur now, drawing on her magic, on the Fade, to enhance her movements, there and then gone and there again, blade slashing, whirling, anger and pain and betrayal as she reached the last stanza.

Draw your last breath, my friends,  
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
Rest at the Maker's right hand,

AND BE FORGIVEN!

The last was screamed to the heavens, borrowed sword forced tip first into the ground, deep, she kneeling in the dirt, magic spreading out from her in an ever-widening circle, spirit magic but not a barrier, not healing, no, she was releasing into the air devastation, a firestorm. Cullen had barely enough sense left to cast a spell purge, pulling its power to a small area around himself, a small pebble in a river of magic, flowing and undulating and dangerous around him.

While he watched, while he gaped, she lifted her left hand, the hand that held the mark, that sparked and glowed, from the pommel of the sword, fisted it tightly, and pulled. The magic she had released stopped its mad rush away from her, the inescapable tide reversing course to its creator.

As all of the pent up emotion she had released and now bid return battered at her senses, Meera swayed, hard, only her grip on the sword allowing her to remain upright, panting and pale and drained. But she was calmer, now, centered, her magic back under control, the demons she had felt circling as she called on the Fade to speed her movements receding, dreamlike. Though the thought that her Father held her phylactery, that the Inquisition might still be just another, different sort of prison was a painful brand on her heart, she had accepted that which she couldn't change.

For now.

"Maker's breath."

Oh, no. No, no, no, he couldn't be here, he couldn't see, no one could see, she wouldn't let them in, a last humiliation, she was going to be sick.

His naked hand was cool on the back of her neck, large and male, his presence calm at her side, and somehow she took a breath. And another. And another, this one less of a greedy gulp at the air than a soothing benediction to her aching spirit. She was shocked when she felt him crouch at her side, when he said nothing, only continued to gently knead the base of her skull, there, where the headache would be likely to gather after such a display of raw power.

She pressed her forehead to her hands over the sword, still trembling a little, more now that he was touching her. She didn't, couldn't speak, not yet, and was pathetically grateful he let silence reign. Part of her wanted him to go away, wanted to be able to wallow in her misery, in the ache in her muscles, in the raw power still roiling across her nerves. Another part of her, the part deep inside that she tried to ignore, wanted to turn and press her face into the curve of his shoulder, to let him comfort and soothe. To let someone, anyone, him, in.

Still shaken, Cullen expelled a noisy breath, fingers straying down the curve of her spine, back up, a caress that could be considered absent if he wasn't so aware of touching her. She was so very female, soft and touchable and curved. The coiled fist in his gut tightened a bit more. He refused to acknowledge it as desire.

The intimate moment continued to stretch between them, their breath ghosting on the cold evening air, his hand on her back, she leaning into him just that little bit.

"When I joined the Order at thirteen, I was enamored of the idea of a sword. I'd spent hours practicing with a wooden one my father had carved for me out of a broken branch, you see, so I thought I knew what it would feel like to hold it in my hand, to feel the weight and the wonder of it."

When Meera chanced a glance at him, he was looking back in the direction from which they'd come, toward Haven, his beautiful mouth somber and serious. He turned and those amber eyes of his were intent and kind on her face. The beauty of him caught at her, caused her breath to hitch. He continued to speak, firm and low, continued the hypnotic and disturbing caress of her spine. "When they gave me my first sword, I spent hours with the practice dummies, dodging, parrying, glorying in the power, in the rush, in the freedom of violence. The other recruits teased me but I didn't care: I had a sword."

He paused, expectantly, and Meera managed a whispered, "And all of the responsibility of it."

"Yes." Cullen paused again, his fingertips burrowing into the back of her hair unbidden at the sudden flash of kinship, of understanding, he saw in her eyes. "What you were doing here today, the Trial of Swords, was used extensively in my training to remind me that I carried a sword not to do or be violence but to be the bulwark against violence. Knight-Commander Garault was very firm on all of us practicing it at least once a week."

"My father..." She had to stop, had to clear her throat, even as she turned more fully toward him, her breasts brushing his chest, her shiver echoed by his fingers tightening in her hair. They continued to look, really look, at each other for the first time, person to person rather than Herald to Commander, mage to former Templar, as she spoke. "As the youngest Trevelyen, not the heir or the spare, I was destined for service in the Chantry. My father decreed I would be a Sister as that was suitable in his view for his only daughter."

"And you wanted to be a Templar." At her defeated nod, Cullen had to resist the urge to lean in and press a kiss to her forehead. She looked so young, suddenly. "Who taught you the Trial?"

"My Uncle Hemlen, my father's youngest brother, is a Templar. I think he taught me because my father forbade it." She sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch, into the almost embrace. "I practiced every morning, faithfully, with the blunted sword I'd stolen from the practice yard."

"What happened?" He gave into temptation and used his free hand to brush a wayward piece of hair from her cheek. Her little smile was an arrow to his gut. She didn't open her eyes.

"I was twelve when my father caught me, twelve when his incredible rage at being disobeyed frightened me so thoroughly I set the garden, my mother's garden, on fire."

She took another breath, her cheek almost pressed to his shoulder, her voice a pained whisper. "He left me there, at the Circle, but not before he informed the Senior Enchanter he would need my phylactery."

"Why?"

"The phylactery was his power and his weapon, you see. As long as he had it, as long as they, and I, knew he had it, I was never free of him."

Evening sounds filled the quiet around them. Meera felt each of his fingers on her body as a separate torture. If she turned to him now, if she pressed her lips to his, would he turn away from her?

She didn't have the courage to try.

She straightened away from him, dislodging his touch, and said, quietly, "The Circles are cages, Commander, and my cage had extra bars."

She started to get up, let his hand under her elbow help her. She presented him with the sword, hilt first.

Cullen took it absently, still studying her profile as she angled herself subtly away from him. It had never occurred to him that she might be as she was not from privilege but from necessity. He had known women like her in the past, women forged by pain and steel and circumstances beyond their control. One of them had saved him and the mages at Kinloch. One of them had saved Kirkwall until it was beyond saving. Neither of them had been mages but perhaps that was only a small detail and did not separate her quite as far from the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall as he might have suspected?

Further, what she had done here intrigued him.

He told himself he was glad they were no longer touching, even if it was a lie.

"Uncle Hemlen didn't teach you the last bit, with the spell. What was it?"

"That's complicated."

"Try."

She huffed out a breath and frowned, obviously trying to find the words. "Are you familiar with how a mage can use their mind to knock someone back, to disorient them?

"Somewhat." Cullen attempted not to sound sarcastic. From the narrow look she gave him, he thought he might have managed mildly affronted, instead.

"Well, that usually requires just a quick pushing outwards of negative energy, like a little shove of negative emotion." Meera demonstrated by placing her hands in front of her, palms in, and making a small forward movement with her fingers.

"Well, that energy has to come from somewhere, or at least it makes more sense to me if it does. So I imagine a dam holding back the river of my negative thoughts and emotions. To deal with an enemy or," she grimaced, "give a Circle demonstration, you simply open the release valve of the dam and let a little spillover occur."

"But a dam can overflow and cause a flood when the river rises." Cullen understood the imagery all too well.

"Exactly!" She nodded, pleased. "So when the flood happens, as is inevitable, instead of letting it overwhelm you, you release it." She made a much larger mirror of her gesture from before. "Doing so as part of a ritual, as part of the Trial, lets me focus the power better, have more control over it."

She was surprised when he considered her words thoughtfully, golden brows drawn together in a frown, tapping his fingertips on his sword hilt. When Knight Captain Savlin had caught her practicing the Trial, he'd been appalled. When she'd offered to teach the ability to his Templars and her fellow mages, including the part with magic, he'd ordered her into solitary confinement for a fortnight. Only the intercession of the First Enchanter had saved her from serving more than a few days.

She'd never understood the hesitation. It was a bit like a spell purge only instead of the magic having never happened at all, you redirected it.

If not for the Trial, she thought perhaps she'd have been made Tranquil. She'd had little control of her magic when she'd been first at the Circle.

"But you brought all of it rushing back after it was released." That's what puzzled Cullen. "Why?"

The corner of her mouth turned down. "All things in this world are finite. What one man gains, another has lost."

"I see." And he did. The Chant of Light. Andraste preserve him, the nightmares were his, he knew they were, knew they were his cross to bear, but for a moment, watching her, he'd hoped...

Darkness had fallen while they spoke. Setting aside his own disappointment, he offered his arm to her. "We should be getting back."

She hesitated for a moment, then slid her hand through the crook of his elbow. They walked back to Haven in silence. When he stopped at her door, she was surprised by his quick salute with the sword, fist to heart, and even more so when he handed the practice weapon to her, hilt first.

As he turned to go, she heard herself say, softly, the sword hanging limply at her side, "Commander. If you ever feel the dam is overflowing..."

His half-smile was somehow bleak in the torchlight. "I'll let you know, Herald."

She watched him walk away, the memory of his hand on her skin lingering long after he'd disappeared.


	8. Threnodies 5.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threnodies 5.1:  
>  _There was no word_  
>  _For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky._  
>  _All that existed was silence._  
>  _Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,_  
>  _The first Word,_  
>  _And His Word became all that might be:_  
>  _Dream and idea, hope and fear,_  
>  _Endless possibilities._  
>  _And from it made his firstborn._  
>  _And he said to them:_  
>  _In My image I forge you,_  
>  _To you I give dominion_  
>  _Over all that exists._  
>  _By your will_  
>  _May all things be done._

"They used the Tranquil to make…Maker's breath!" Cullen crumpled the letter onto the War Table, stalking away from it.

Leliana picked up the parchment, smoothing it out with a grimace. "Yes, the Herald was very clear."

"And very upset. She set the house where they found the evidence on fire." Josephine sighed. "She has such a soft heart, our Herald."

Months ago, when the Herald had first appeared in their lives, Leliana and Cullen would have scoffed at Josephine's pronouncement. The Herald of Andraste was cold, spoiled, and severe. Except she wasn't. She was the perfect product of the Circles, the Chantry, and the Templars: controlled, dutiful, and afraid. Released from most of the fetters of all three, she was something altogether unexpected; by turns sweet, powerful, shy, and faithful.

Before Cullen had seen her on that hilltop, it had been easier to overlook or to be frustrated by what seemed to be her demanding ways and blighted endless suggestions. Though her sudden, and continued, appearances in his nightmares was unsettling, he felt he'd done his penance for such blasphemy by caring for her after the poisoning. Now, however, now, since he'd found her practicing the Trial on the hill, since she'd set off into the wilds once more, since she'd started sending her reports directly to him, neat, precise, considered reports full of pertinent details and suggestions she asked him to consider instead of demanding he implement, now Cullen found it impossible to ignore her.

In fact, he was thinking about her much more than was wise. He thought about her light, teasing laugh, joking with Cassandra. He thought about her power and pain radiating around him while she buried a borrowed sword in the dirt. He thought about the small hillocks of her spine under his fingertips, the softness of her hair, how she had felt, almost pressed against him. He thought about the way she'd offered to teach him her magic, unsure but gentle, because she saw his pain, appreciated his understanding.

About the way she felt around him in dreams, silky and soft and wet and warm, sweetly giving.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Commander, are you well?" Leliana's voice carried a hint of concern.

"Just a headache, nothing more." He brushed off the concern with a small smile, ignoring the low ache that had settled somewhere much more private than atop his neck. He had to stop thinking of her that way. "The Herald seems to think we should investigate."

"Cassandra agrees. She said as much in her report to me. The sheer number of these skulls and the others they found in Redcliffe besides is troubling. That the skulls of the Tranquil seem to lead to these runestones, which have no apparent purpose, is also disconcerting."

"I will send some of my people." Cullen and Josephine acknowledged Leliana's offer with nods.

"She says she spoke to Grand Enchanter Fiona but she does not say if she has a made a decision about the mages or the Templars." Josephine tapped her quill on her board, frowning.

"We can ask her when she returns. She says she is bringing the Grey Warden and a mercenary band led by a Qunari." Cullen couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped. "Maker the woman is ambitious."

"Lucky for us, Commander." Leliana handed him back the letter, her smile turning sly around the edges. "She seems pleased by your gift."

He took the report Leliana handed him automatically, cursing the fair skin that caused him to flush. "Yes, well. She … likes to read. It gets boring on marches." The defensiveness in his voice only made him blush all the harder, especially as Josephine's smile widened to match Leliana's.

On impulse, he'd sent her an illustrated volume on the Trial of Swords. It had been part of his collection for years, one of the few things that had followed him from Kinloch to Kirkwall to Haven. He wasn't embarrassed by the gift so much as the note he'd sent. Andraste preserve him if he offended the Herald with his terse, "The beauty of responsibility." He'd meant it as a compliment.

A perfunctory knock on the door had everyone turning.

The young dwarf sketched a salute to everyone as he entered on Leliana's order. "The Herald has returned, Sers! Beggin' your pardon, but she says everyone has to come to the tavern for a drink at eight bells. Says if you don't come, you'll hurt the Iron Bull's feelings and he's bigger than all of you."

Leliana laughed. "I have seen a Qunari. She is quite right. Tell the Herald we will be there."

"A Qunari." Josephine shuddered delicately. "How exciting!"

oOo

"And that's when Bull said, 'Right in the ass!'" Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, Krem, of the Bull's Chargers took a bow and plopped down in his seat as raucous laughter filled The Singing Maiden.

From her position wedged between Sera and Cassandra, Meera felt like she was holding a bizarre sort of court. Haven's small tavern was full to bursting, the door propped open to let in the frigid night air because people continued to stream into the room to gawk. She couldn't blame them, not really. It was hard not to want to gawk at all of the strange and wondrous people who surrounded her.

Vivienne de Fer, the former Imperial Enchanter for Orlais, dark, stately, and gorgeous, sipped wine from a scarred wooden vessel and discussed a mutual acquaintance with Josephine and Leliana.

Varric was deep into conversation with the Iron Bull, a Qunari mercenary and leader of a mercenary band who had only recently joined the Inquisition. For coin. And secrets that he planned to send back to the Qunari. Meera took a quick gulp of wine from her cup. She'd tell Josephine about the secrets part tomorrow.

Sera, the elf with the mouth, was mostly just drinking and humming strangely to herself. Occasionally she'd kick Meera lightly under the table and leer when Meera sent her a glance. Meera was pretty sure that meant she liked her. Maybe.

Blackwall, who had joined up as soon as Meera had explained the Grey Wardens were disappearing mysteriously, seemed content to swap battle stories with Cassandra.

Occasionally, Meera heard Solas interject from his spot down by Krem and the Chargers.

And leaning comfortably on the wall behind her, a solid, warm, thoroughly distracting presence in only shirt and breeches and boots, stood Cullen. The flagon of ale he had been nursing all evening sat at her elbow, nestled together with her cup, the handles touching. When he bent forward for a drink or to return his cup to the table, his arm slid alongside hers, his chest pressing into her back, his breath stirring the hair at the crown of her head. Each time she nearly cursed as goosebumps raced over her skin, as her belly clenched and her nipples tightened unbearably.

She was unaffected by him.

She wanted to be unaffected by him.

She needed to be unaffected by him.

As she lied to herself, Cullen reached forward to grasp his drink, his fingers brushing hers where she was clutching her own. She nearly moaned, nearly leaned back against him, visions of tilting her chin back to lift her lips for a kiss leaving her light headed. When he had settled back against the wall, she gulped greedily at the rest of her wine to keep from begging him to lean forward once more.

Since he'd caught her performing the Trial, since she'd offered to teach it to him, since he'd had his hands on her and they'd shared that singular moment of understanding, she found herself mooning over him.

Before she'd been able to escape Haven, she watched him while they planned excursions and troop movements and clandestine operations over the War Table in a Council session and he gestured expressively with his hands. Those long-fingered, blunt tipped, wide-palmed, beautiful hands.

She'd sought him out in the yard while he watched the troops train and asked him endless questions, mostly about Templars and mages and the Circles. She'd hoped, when he questioned her in return, that he was as curious about her former life as she was about his. Even when they disagreed, as seemed inevitable, she'd enjoyed the way his eyes turned dark and his diction less precise when he was passionate about something.

There'd even been one almost disastrous attempt to watch him spar. Watching him dodge, parry, and thrust had been beautiful and dangerous, his movements fluid, his laughter as he scored a hit infectious. Then the cocky bastard he was fighting had tried to backstab him while the sun was in his eyes. Meera's staff was in her hand before she quite thought it through. She hadn't watched him practice after that, but she did daydream about it. Often.

Even when she was out in the field, away from him, she had to ward her dreams in the Fade lest she fall victim to the spirits of Desire who pretended to be the handsome blonde former Templar, whispering to her of his want for her.

It was indecent and sad. She was a silly, hopeless, romantic, needy fool.

She wanted to lick the little scar at the corner of his lips.

She wanted to run her fingers through his beautiful blonde curls.

She wanted to bite the back of his neck where he rubbed when he was thinking or embarrassed.

She wanted to know if his big, blunt-fingered hands would hold her as firmly as he did his sword and shield or if they would be tender on her flesh.

She yearned and it was a singular, disturbing, and highly inappropriate desire for the Herald of Andraste. And if he sent her another thoughtful, gorgeous gift like that book, she was going to drag him off into the dark and have her untutored but highly motivated way with him.

He leaned forward again to set down his cup, invading her space quite thoroughly. She unconsciously squeezed her thighs together, closing her eyes as a wave of want washed through her. "Oh, help."

"I'm sorry, Herald, did you say something?" His velvet, slightly rumbling voice full of concern, spoke in her ear. She shivered again and wasn't sure whether to be grateful or to whimper when he murmured, "Are you chilled?" and gently rubbed her arms through her tunic.

No, she was burning. Needing, aching, wanting. "I need to…can you…" She closed her eyes, tried to gather the tattered threads of her dignity around her as he watched her with amber eyes that darkened when she made a helpless little sound in the back of her throat. His fingers tightened on her shoulders.

"Curly, what're you whispering in the Herald's ear over there? She's blushing like a rose!" Varric guffawed when Meera's hands flew to her cheeks and Cullen jerked as if he'd been stabbed, his hands falling away from her.

"Betcha he's thinkin' 'bout his vow of chastity," Sera slurred, winking broadly at Cassandra, who blinked and then frowned.

"Templars are not required to take vows of chastity." Cassandra turned to Cullen with an inquiring glance. "Did you take such a vow, Cullen?"

Meera felt Cullen go very still next to her. Peeking up, she realized he was looking at her, not at Cassandra, a flush staining his cheekbones. "Me? Um…I…no. I've taken no such vows."

"There ya go, Meems." Sera's shoulder bumped hers companionably as she toasted Cullen with her cup. "Commander tight-arse ain't promised to be all goody-goody!"

"Yeah, Herald, kiss the poor bastard!" That was Bull, Meera would bet. He'd already leered at everyone else in camp, why not the Commander?

Were her feelings that obvious? Maybe between embarrassment and lust, she would just melt through the floor.

She risked another glance at Cullen. Something about the way he suddenly avoided her eyes coupled with his obvious embarrassment caused her to feel a sharp tug of affection. Poor man.

Drawing herself up primly in her seat, she shot the snickering Sera a quelling look. When the elf stuck her tongue out at her and crossed her eyes, Meera turned to Varric. "Tell us a story, Varric!"

His smirk was no less knowing than the elf's but never one to turn down a beautiful woman, he stepped up onto his chair. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful maiden named Mimi..."

As the crowd settled into the story, Meera felt Cullen's mouth once more near her ear. "Thank you, Herald. For rescuing me." His large, warm hands squeezed her shoulders once more.

She turned to acknowledge his gesture and felt her stomach drop to her toes. She tried not to let her needy, foolish, romantic heart, the one she'd been sure right up until recently that she did not have, fall right at his feet. He was smiling at her, a lopsided, boyish smile that curled the corner of his mouth with the scar and warmed his eyes to gold.

She couldn't help but smile back.

Cullen's heart did a slow flip in his chest as the Herald graced him with a rare smile. It warmed her grass green eyes, softening her interesting face into sweetness, her pretty pink lips delectably kissable, a deep dimple appearing in her cheek. The husky note to her voice had Cullen thinking of whispered words in the dark on heated skin. "You're welcome, Commander. And since I haven't had a chance to say it yet, thank you very much for the book. It's lovely."

"I'm sorry if the note was rude." He said it ruefully, crouching down and extending his arm over the high back of her chair. Their knees bumped. She raised an eyebrow but didn't move away.

"The Trial can be beautiful. As can a sword."

"Something about the wielder, hmmm?"

Her eyes went wide. She leaned closer. "Commander! Did you just make a pun?"

"What?! No! I didn't…" When she burst into delighted, muffled giggles almost into his shoulder, he groaned. "Yes. Okay. But I didn't mean to."

"Mhm. If you say so."

Companionable silence reined for a bit. Finally, Meera sighed and dropped her head back, her hair tickling his arm. Idly, he wondered what she would do if he started pulling pins. The length of her hair was becoming a minor obsession. Along with wondering if she really did taste like berries.

"I've made a decision about the mages and the Templars." When he made no response, she rolled her eyes up to find him frowning at her hair. "Commander?"

"What?" It took him a minute to focus on her face. "Mages and Templars. Of course." His lopsided grin returned. "Mages, then?"

She huffed out a little breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. He didn't sound angry or upset. "No arguments, Commander?"

His eyes roamed over her face, a wondering, waiting, thoughtful sort of inspection. When their eyes met, she could see, clearly, his trust. The arm over the back of her chair slid down to lightly curl over her shoulders. "Meera. You'll do what's best for the Inquisition."

Everyone at the table saw the Herald lean her head against the Commander, his arm around her shoulders, his cheek on her hair.


	9. Andraste 7.12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andraste 7.12:  
>  _Let the blade pass through the flesh,_  
>  _Let my blood touch the ground,_  
>  _Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice._

They'd done it. They'd taken Redcliffe Castle. With Leliana's agents and Dorian Pavus, a Tevinter magister's, help, she was standing in front of Baron Alexius, prepared to wrest control of the rebel mages from Tevinter's grasp.

"Your men are dead, Alexius." She could take no pleasure in their deaths even as she stepped toward the dais. Alexius's face contorted.

"You are a mistake. You should never have existed." The magister extended his hand, an amulet rising from it in swirling emerald light.

"NO!" Dorian sprang forward, sending a burst of energy toward his former mentor. The rift that opened was unlike any Meera had ever closed.

Time warped.

Hours later, Meera collapsed against Dorian's chest, shaking and exhausted and heartsick.

She'd taken Redcliffe castle. She'd watched her friends die. She'd spoken to a King. She'd made a full and open alliance with the rebel mages.

As she let Dorian soothe and cuddle, she knew only two things:

She'd given her fellow mages freedom.

Cullen was never going to forgive her.

OoO

"She's having nightmares."

Cullen looked across the War Table at Cassandra wearily, in no mood to handle the Seeker or her concerns about the Herald at the moment. That the Seeker looked dead on her feet, her armor singed and dinged in places, her eyes dark pools of weariness, stirred Cullen's concern.

He squashed the impulse brutally.

The mages had come to Haven at a cost Cullen wasn't sure he could count.

Meera had granted them their freedom. After saving them from a mad Tevinter, after King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden had banished them from Redcliffe, Meera had offered them a home in the Inquisition. A true alliance, with a promise of no Circles.

Vivienne was refusing to speak to her. The handful of Templars in camp were angry. Haven was full of fear.

Cullen felt betrayed.

They'd argued over it. Reasonably, with no raised voices and no insults, but it had been an argument.

"What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!" He glared at her, the snarl on his lips marking it with bitterness. He tried not to note how the skin under her pretty eyes was bruised, how she was still slightly favoring her left ankle. How she looked at him as if she'd only just remembered he was a Templar.

And the enemy.

"We're not monsters. We can control ourselves without outside help." She sounded sure.

Cullen remembered a cage and endless, burning pain. "This is not an issue of self-control. Even the strongest mages can be overcome by demons in conditions like these!"

"Have I ever given you reason to think I would become an abomination? Has Solas? Has Vivienne?" Her big green eyes were pleading with him. He could think only of how she'd felt in his arms in the tavern, how he'd trusted her beyond reason and sense. She was a mage. Would he never learn?

"No!" When she stepped back a pace at his vehement tone, he tempered it. "No, of course not."

"They are people, Cullen. Just people."

She touched his arm, lightly, burning like a brand, even through his greaves. The way she tilted her head reminded him of Renee when she'd wanted some forbidden favor from him. He had to suppress the shudder of revulsion. His nightmares come to life in the body of the Herald and a village full of mages.

He tasted lyrium on his tongue. The quick cold burn, the tingle of power in fingertips and belly. He clenched his fists against the want. "They are mages, Herald. Some of them will expect to be watched."

She registered his use of her title as the slap it was, the corners of her pretty mouth turning down. "Yes. And if some of them ask, Fiona has promised me she will tell you." She sighed, running a hand over her face in a weary gesture. It tugged at his heart, made him nearly step forward and just gather her up against him and promise her whatever she needed.

"Magic can be dangerous." Her eyes went flat and cool at his statement, all warmth leeched out of her face.

"Magic is a tool, just like a sword or a bow. The person wielding the tool can be good, chaotic, lawful, even evil, but the power just is. If you continue to treat the mages, treat us as if our power is inherently evil, we will continue to be more likely to look for comfort and support from the spirits of the Fade."

"The demons." The words were bitter ashes on his tongue. "You would have us be Tevinter."

She drew back as if he'd struck her, something horrible and nameless and terrified chasing itself across her face. Now her voice matched her eyes, calm and cold and authoritative. He felt the cold in his bones. "This discussion is at an end. Do not make Haven a Circle. I forbid it."

The very next day, she'd gathered Iron Bull, that Blighted Tevinter magister Dorian, and Cassandra. She had not looked at him as she issued instructions to the Council: "Find me a way to use the mages to close the Breach. Solas and Vivienne have agreed to stay behind and offer their assistance."

"Where are you going?" The words had come from him unbidden. This time, her eyes burned, hot and pained and hurting. He couldn't look away.

"To kill a dragon."

They had returned only this morning.

"Did you kill it?" He tried to sound interested. Cassandra's fierce frown told him he'd fallen woefully short.

"Yes. It was a glorious battle. Iron Bull was delighted. We brought back some dragon scales and part of the dragon's hoard."

"Congratulations." He shuffled his paperwork, hoping she would take the hint and go away. Instead, she stepped into his personal space.

"Commander. She. Is. Having. Nightmares." A finger drilled into his chest with each word.

Cullen sighed, closing his eyes briefly. He reminded himself he didn't care. He couldn't. When he opened them, Cassandra had her arms crossed, her toe tapping in agitation. Andraste's ass. "Has she spoken with anyone about what happened at Redcliffe?"

Cassandra shook her head, looking briefly pained. "Only to Dorian."

Something terrible had happened when Meera, Sera, and Cassandra had arrived in Redcliffe to claim the rebel mages. Somehow, Dorian was tangled up in the trauma.

Dorian. The name left a sour note in Cullen's mouth. A Tevinter necromancer, smooth and wily and darkly handsome. He'd decided to stay, because 'he loved the south to itty bitty pieces'. Meera's relief had been palpable. His own jealousy was monstrous and misplaced.

He rolled his shoulders forward and then back, the headache brewing since before sunrise spreading from the base of his skull down into his shoulders, tightening every muscle, promising pain later, most likely a sleepless night. He was down to one philter of lyrium a month now. Mostly. The agony was likely to get worse. "How do you know she's having nightmares?"

"I heard her. She cried out in the night while we camped." Cassandra grimaced. "Every night."

Cullen paced away to the wall and then back. "You want me to share my pain."

"She needs someone who can understand." She turned those intense dark eyes on him, a demand. When he only looked back mulishly, she muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath. "Cullen, you know how bad the nightmares can be."

He thought of soft hair under his cheek and words said in anger. "I'll talk to her."

"Before we go to seal the Breach tomorrow." Cassandra's tone brooked no argument.

"Tonight, then."

OoO

"Stop it, you Tevinter demon!" Meera shoved Dorian away with a hand, not even bothering to look up from the notes she was reading. A delicious laugh, good enough to eat, was her only response as he lounged on the bed next to her, the fingers that had been tickling her only seconds before folded demurely under his head.

They were supposed to be studying the notes Vivienne, Solas, and some of the other members of the Inquisition had made regarding closing the Breach. Instead, as often happened, Dorian was bored and restless. Tomorrow would be action, but today was tedious study and useless conjecture.

Sighing, she leaned her head back and, tired, closed her eyes.

And was there, again, the Redcliffe of the future.

The future. She and Dorian had been sent into the future, a future where the Breach had swallowed the sky, where someone called the Elder One was growing red lyrium in people, where Sera and Cassandra were dying and Leliana had been tortured to the point of death and beyond. Empress Celene was dead, the Inquisition crushed, a demon army marching on Thedas. Behind her closed lids, she could see all of it, painted in the lurid green of the Breach and the burning scarlet of red lyrium.

That was going to be the future if she couldn't close the Breach tomorrow. Maybe even if she did.

Her hands went limp on the parchment as hot, dangerous panic rose up to consume her. The mark on her hand flared bright, her own magic causing the room to turn sweltering between one moment and the next.

Realizing what was happening, Dorian curled himself around her from behind, his chest pressed to her back, quickly dispelling as much of the magic as he could. He murmured nonsense in Tevene into her hair, rocking her gently as she began to keen, softly, his own eyes wide and burning, his hands unsteady on her arms. "Shhh, pretty one, shhh. I'm here, Dorian is here, no one can hurt you."

The door flying wide had Dorian muttering a curse, desperately fumbling to cast another dispel as Meera's magic went wild again. Instead, the room filled with a sensation of cold and pain and pressure, the utter negation of magic. Meera, already weakened, slumped forward a little, shuddering hard. Dorian held out a hand toward the Commander, palm up in a gesture of peace even as he fought not to retch.

"She is fi..."

"She is not fine." Was that his voice, that low growl of menace? Cullen wasn't sure. His heart was lodged somewhere around his throat as he stalked across the room and snatched Meera up and into his arms. When she turned away from him, reaching for Dorian, Cullen felt his knees nearly buckle.

"Meera."

Cullen's damaged whisper tore at her heart, the sound of her name on his lips bringing her, abruptly, back to the present. She blinked up at Cullen, green eyes slowly clearing, shame and misery mixing together. Cullen's rage evaporated like water in the sun, his hands gentling on her back. She placed her palms flat on his chest, reassured by the steady beat of his heart.

Dorian cleared his throat, stumbling only a little as he moved toward the door. "Don't mind me, not here anymore, bye bye."

The sound of the door closing went mostly unnoticed. "You're not just having nightmares."

Though she stiffened in his arms, she didn't move away. "Sometimes, when I close my eyes, it's so real again."

"Can you tell me?"

She pressed her forehead onto his breastplate to hide from his kind, patient amber eyes. "Alexius tried to use time magic to remove me from the world entirely. Dorian changed it somehow and instead, we were sent a year into the future."

Cullen pulled off his gloves and greaves, dropping them somewhere behind her. Once his hands were free, he spread them across her back, stroking gently. She took a deep, shuddering breath, turning so her cheek rested on the cool metal of his armor. "This future was terrible, Cullen. The Breach was...monstrous, the size of the whole sky. They'd captured everyone, infected all of them with red lyrium."

She had to breathe slowly through her nose. She could still smell the decay in the dungeons, hear the eerily beautiful song of the red lyrium, see Leliana's face ravaged and broken. "The red lyrium sings, Cullen. In my…in the Fade, I can hear it, calling to me." She suppressed a whimper.

He was glad she couldn't see his expression.

"They'd taken everyone. Tortured them. Experimented on them. Fiona had…the lyrium was growing inside of her." Her eyes flicked up to his as her breathing hitched. He was solid and real and here. He didn't want to be, wasn't sure he should be, but he was.

"Cassandra and Sera were the least affected, though their voices had this horrible echoing thing in them. They were both mad. Leliana…" She had to dig her fingernails into his lower back, holding on. "She had the most resistance to the taint. They kept taking her flesh, trying for a cure." Her voice trailed away, the barest whisper. "When we found her, she was already dead in the ways that matter."

She was suddenly like porcelain in his arms, fragile and cracked. He couldn't stop himself from brushing his lips over the crown of her head. She smelled like smoke and strong tea and magic.

"They saved us. Leliana, Cassandra, Sera. They saved me and Dorian so we could come back through the portal. We had to come back. We can't let…they assassinated Empress Celene. Raised an army of demons. I can't let it happen." She nearly sobbed though her eyes were dry. "I have to close the Breach, Cullen. It's all that matters."

"We." His voice was firm. He tilted her chin up with a finger. "We are the Inquisition."

"I'm so afraid, Cullen."

So was he. Of his addiction. Of his past. Of falling in love with summer green eyes, sweet curves, a soft heart, and magic.

"We won't fail, Meera."

She believed. Maybe for a little bit, he did, too.

OoO

"What about it, Cullen? Will it work?" Her voice was expressionless, her summer green eyes flat and empty. In this moment, as Haven burned, the Herald of Andraste had no fear.

The scream of a dragon sounded overhead, high and wild and pained. She could be grateful it flew under a sky with no Breach. She had done that much, at least.

"Possibly. If he shows us this path. But what of your escape?" The words were forced from Cullen even as the strange young man in the stranger hat looked on, even as Rodrick lay dying, as hope and regret and yearning and the stench of fear filled the Chantry.

When she looked down and away, took a deep breath, he knew what she meant to do.

She had never been more terrible or beautiful in that moment as she made the decision to die for them.

"Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way..." Neither of them believed that, not even a little.

He turned away only for a moment to bark orders. When he came back, soldiers running past, he said only what was necessary. Words were swords, now, and precious. "They'll load the trebuchets. Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the tree line."

He was so cold.

Meera said nothing, simply moved toward the door, measured steps. If she looked at him, if she looked at his face, her friend, her protector, her Commander, she would break. She needed them to live.

She needed him to live. Whatever the cost.

She heard him behind her, one last prayer. "If we are to have a chance – if you are to have a chance – let that thing hear you."

As she stepped out into the frigid air, filled with smoke and fire, she began to chant:

Let the blade pass through the flesh,

Let my blood touch the ground,

Let my cries touch their hearts.

Let mine be the last sacrifice.


	10. Transfigurations 18.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transfigurations 18.10:  
>  _Foul and corrupt are you_  
>  _Who have taken My gift_  
>  _And turned it against My children._

Her existence had narrowed to the cold, the pain, her blood, and her magic.

Where before she closed rifts, the Herald, now she ripped open the Veil, the maleficar.

_and in return were given in hushed whispers the secrets of darkest magic_

She coughed up blood into the snow, scarlet on white. The Elder One. She must focus. She must… Corypheus.

those who had once been mage-lord the brightest of their age were no longer men but monsters

Her mark, the Anchor, had been a mistake. A mistake, paid for by the Divine's death.

and took from the Fade a measure of its living flesh and placed it apart from the Spirits

Every step was agony, the snow and the wind and the dead fires and the endless mountain.

She was dying.

here lies the abyss the well of all souls

Cullen. She needed to get to Cullen. He wouldn't let her die. Such pain in his eyes when she went forth to meet the Maker and his Bride.

in your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame

She was done. Spent. She stumbled, falling to her knees, too weak to catch herself on her hands. Would he blame her or himself?

o Creator, see me kneel for I walk only where You would bid me

"There! It's her!" Cullen.

stand only in places You have blessed sing only the words You place in my throat

"Thank the Maker!" Cassandra.

my Maker, know my heart take from me a life of sorrow

His arms, around her, cold metal, warm leather, soft fur, the too fast thump thump of his heart under her ear, her hip and thigh and side cradled to the solid wall of his chest, his breathless, lecturing, babbling voice somewhere above her, around her, inside of her: "Don't die, Meera, you can't die, I've got you, you're safe now, safe, I have you, I won't leave you."

She slid gracelessly and gratefully into the dark, consumed.

lift me from a world of pain judge me worthy of Your endless pride

OoO

When Meera was small, a tiny thing with a sweet baby face, her father would sweep her up in front of him on his horse and take her for a gallop. He called her dragon because she had fiery red hair to match her quick temper. "Like my gran," he'd tell her, lifting her high into the air to make her giggle. She loved him with every muscle and sinew and thought, her Da, the center of her world. She was his pride and joy, his little dragon, and her world was perfect.

She was eight, her hair darkened to auburn, when he stopped taking her on horse rides. No matter how much she begged and pleaded, he told her she'd gotten "too big for nonsense". So she went for gallops alone on the pretty little mare he'd given her for her birthday. She was content.

She was nine and outpacing both of her older brothers in their lessons when he stopped coming to listen to her recite. She overheard him tell her mother, "She talks too much. Thinks she knows everything." She thought this a high compliment and set out to know more. The more she knew, the more she could be a help to her father.

She was ten and entering an awkward stage of chubby childhood when she was barred from the practice yard by the authoritative weapons' master. "Ladies do not need to learn the sword," her father told her flatly when she protested. Meera didn't want to be a lady, she wanted to be a Templar and serve the Maker. Uncle Hemlen taught her the Trial of Swords and so she practiced to be worthy, sure her father would see sense.

She was eleven and bossy and prickly and in love with the idea of magic when her oldest brother, Hayder the heir, told her she would go to the Chantry. "Good! The Maker and his Bride will be pleased by my service as a Templar, protecting all of the mages!" After her father took his leather belt to her, after he made her unable to sit for three days, Meera did not cry. She worked harder, longer, promised herself she would be better.

She was twelve, her body already starting to bud into womanhood, hips and breasts promising the lush woman she would become, practicing the Trial of Swords in her mother's garden when her father sent her sword skittering, jerked her up by her arms, and shook her hard enough to make her teeth clack together. When she tried to kick him, scared and ashamed and so angry, he threw her, straight-armed; her back hit the stone of the wall with a sickening crunch.

He advanced on her, fists up in a fighting stance, his mouth in a rictus of distaste. He was on her before she could stand. Using her tunic, he lifted her so that his hand could crack across her cheek, open palmed. Her head rocked back. She saw stars and felt blood fill her mouth. When she spit it onto his boot, her father slapped her again.

She shoved him back a full step with the force of her rage, without words, without touch, only magic.

When he stumbled, she wrenched herself out of his grip. "You...will...not...touch...me."

She did not sidestep when he came for her again, his eyes strangely empty.

She reached for the place inside of her where she believed in the Maker, gold and molten and pure. She pictured a shield before her, wide and tall and bright, the power of her faith.

The very ground between her and her sire erupted, burning hot and high, the feel of her fury and her pain and her loss, an impassable wall.

Her father took her to the Circle that very day.

She was sixteen, her temper wild and untamed, her magic flaring and sparking and dangerous. The Ostwick Circle shoved her into the Fade to be Harrowed or die in the attempt. The Pride spirit looked like her father: a short man, built like a bare-knuckle brawler, barrel chest, thick, heavy hands, shrewd eyes, a thin, unsmiling mouth.

It told her it loved her. That she was beautiful. That she made him proud.

"My little dragon."

When she stepped out of the Fade, rising to her feet in the middle of the Harrowing chamber, ash sprinkled like diamonds in her hair, Meera knew two things:

She was a mage.

She had nothing but her faith, because her Da had abandoned her long ago.

OoO

Cole, the young boy who was not a boy, who had come because the Templars' song was wrong, discordant, and had stayed because the song of the Inquisition was beautiful and terrible and just, listened to the Herald as she slept. No one saw him because no one was supposed to see him. He sometimes would leave to check on Roderick, the sad, angry, lonely man who'd led them up the pilgrim's path to safety, but mostly he stayed by the Herald. And listened.

She sounded like blood and death and only the faint flicker of hope when they first eased her onto a cot in the healing tents. The hope was a thread connecting her to the big blonde man everyone called Commander, the one who came and went from the tent most often. He sounded like wrath and anxiety and affection under a thin layer of the old Templar song, the one Cole loved. It was fraying and edged in needles, though, and Cole had to give his attention to the Herald.

The healers who came and went were blue and green and gentle, their songs easing under her skin to knit bones and slow blood, to mend frozen flesh and soften her pain. Their magic called to her magic, a symphony of lyrium and, strangely, cinders.

"Orange and bright, burning. Like faith, like love, like hate, two sides of the same face."

The rest of the Inquisition joined her song as they came and went from the tent, their notes both complementary and in opposition to her own:

The Seeker was the measured beat of the drums of war, the pure note of conviction, and the steady warmth of friendship. When she spoke the words over the Herald, their faith rose to a crescendo, bathing Cole in its light.

Madame de Fer sounded of woodwinds, high and pure and harsh, and the tang of censure. Her magic was winter but it burned as the Herald's burned, twisting together to push all that would oppose the Inquisition before them.

Red Jenny, Sera, who could not stop fidgeting added the clash of cymbals and the sweetness of anticipation. She spoke words like weapons, rapid fire and pleading, and the Herald calmed her with the song.

Bull had an exotic, foreign sound, as if many voices sang one deep, resonant note. Behind it lay respect, a stalwart shield, scattered with the sounds of his Chargers.

Varric was the stone, slow and ponderous, with echoes of another melody, buried deep, hidden, and the promise of retribution, swift and sudden. His song both pushed against and attempted to join with the Seeker's song.

Solas's sounded old to Cole's senses, the whispers of the Fade layered with grief and deception. The Herald caused Solas's song to falter, her own stronger, more pure.

Lady Josephine brought a whirl of music and laughter and bright intelligence, a feast for the senses. Underneath, she was the painful weeping of hope.

The Warden who was not a Warden. He was still waters and dark pools, a careless whisper in the wrong ear, wind blowing away the past. He sang of hope with Josephine's voice.

At first, Cole thought Leliana had no song. In his head she wore the shape of a nightingale, a lovely bird with a heart-breaking song.

As the Herald thrashed on her cot, as some memory picked apart the edges of her melody, he turned to Leliana, who sat next to the Herald, expressionless.

"She sounds like rage, cold and bitter. The memory of him hurts her, inside, where it matters."

Leliana turned, tilting her head to study him. She gave no hint of surprise to see him, even though Cole knew she did not remember him.

"Sounds like?" she asked.

He nodded, eager. "Yes. I listen to her song, their songs."

When Leliana said nothing, he rushed on. "You don't sing. She likes it when you sing."

Leliana winced, a barely perceptible movement of her eyes. Cole frowned. "Song is buried, crushed by the weight. No singing in the Chantry, girl."

The sharp blue eyes narrowed on Cole's face. Before Leliana could speak the angry words, the Herald whimpered, shaking her head. "No, no, no, please!"

Cole touched Leliana's hand and then the Herald's, something like a plea. Giving in, Leliana reached out and took the Herald's hand into hers. The woman on the cot stilled, her features relaxing. Leliana sent Cole a look, mingled surprise and regret and sadness.

"Your song is like her song. It hurts you, inside, where it matters." When Leliana sighed, closing her eyes, Cole relaxed, let himself fade.

"She likes it when you sing."


	11. Threnodies 5.11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threnodies 5.11:  
>  _Those who had been cast down,_  
>  _The demons who would be gods,_  
>  _Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth._  
>  _And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars_  
>  _To the pretender-gods once more,_  
>  _And in return were given, in hushed whispers,_  
>  _The secrets of darkest magic._

The convalescence of the Herald of Andraste was shorter than anyone had anticipated. Though she lingered in the Fade for three days, insensible to the outside world and watched closely by the healers, when she woke she waved away their concerns. 

“Yes, yes, two broken ribs, lost a lot of blood, twisted my ankle, some frostbite and burns. All of it is healed because you are all gifted. Let us move forward.”

She called a meeting of the Council in her tent and told them everything she could remember: Corypheus, the anchor, the dragon, her miraculous escape from Haven. They had questions, some of which she could answer and others which she could not. 

Josephine explained they had no way of knowing, yet, how many were lost.

She nodded, firming her mouth against the quiver of grief. There would be time to mourn. She would make it, for all of them. “I would like to make a demonstration in about an hour. Josephine, could you pass along to Varric and the rest to meet us just over the eastern ridge? Tell Bull to bring the Chargers, as well. I will speak with Fiona and Mother Giselle.”

“May I ask what you plan to do?”

Meera nodded to Leliana, trying to ignore how Cullen stiffened at the mention of Fiona. So he had yet to forgive her for the mages. She wanted to be surprised. Keeping her eyes level on his, her face completely expressionless, she said, quietly, “My magic has changed. I would have you see it. There may be a use for it.”

She carefully boxed up her misery and heartache, burying it deep, when Cullen looked at her as if she were suddenly dangerous, an unknown apostate. She was the Herald. There was work to be done. “One hour. Eastern ridge.”

  


OoO

  


“So, Seeker, what do you think she’s gonna do?” Varric raised an eyebrow when Cassandra sent him a concerned look, her eyes clouded. Ah, he realized, the Seeker knew something of what was about to happen.

“Give a demonstration, as she said.” She tried to sound nonchalant but she knew that Meera was teetering on the edge of breaking, of reverting to the cold, distant woman she had been. As Cassandra turned and saw Cullen trudging up the hill, hand on the hilt of his sword, face drawn and pale and tired, she wondered and she fretted, hoping her pleas to the Maker were heard.

“Of what?” Solas sounded worried, a tone out of place in his normal placid delivery. He fingered the necklace around his neck absently.

“Magic. Ugh.” Sera was picking at a thread on her trousers, leaning companionably against Krem. He nudged her and whispered something in her ear which made her snort out a laugh. “Shut it, perv.”

“He can’t. It’s the Tevinter in him.” Iron Bull laughed when Dorian sneered at him, throwing his huge arm over the smaller man’s shoulder. Dorian huffed but didn’t move away as the rest of the Chargers, sprawled along the way, laughed, and Krem rolled his eyes.

As she crested the hill, Meera almost called out the joke on the tip of her tongue. She was right there, the Meera she liked, the Meera with smiles and laughter and so many _feelings_ for all of these people. The Meera who’d dared to dream Cullen, handsome, noble, former Templar Cullen could care for her, a mage.

“ _My little dragon.”_

She didn’t make the joke. In fact, she said nothing, moving to stand in the middle of the loose circle of the Inquisition’s finest. She noted how Fiona, Vivienne, and Mother Giselle were standing apart from each other. How Blackwall stood next to Cullen, both of them looking uneasy. How Cullen’s eyes were cold and stern, his beautiful mouth drawn into a thin, frustrated line.

Before the hurt could rise up to choke her, she held out her scarred left hand. “Cassandra, if you would place the little wooden person in the middle, please.” 

Once it was in place, she nodded to Cassandra, who stepped into the middle, facing her. “Dorian, Fiona, Vivienne, Commander, please place yourselves at the four points of the compass on the inside of the circle. Be prepared for anything.”

“Anything as in what, darling?” Vivienne sounded coldly amused but her eyes were watchful.

Assuring herself everyone was in place, Meera kept her eyes on Cassandra’s, lifted her left hand up to the sky, and _opened_.

The anchor flared to life, brilliant and stark against the snow. With the sound of crackling magic and the smell of veilfire, a ball of brilliant green light appeared above the wooden figure. There were gasps and other, more vocal cries from the audience as the ball turned, flattened and then widened, a glimpse of the Black City forming, flickering and indistinct. The dummy wavered, wobbled, and then began to drift, piece by piece, into the rift. 

It should have been more difficult, tearing a hole in the Veil that protected the everyday world from the Fade. Instead, it was a little like taking a hard, fast breath after a quick sprint, filling lungs that had been constricted by exertion with life-sustaining air. It was magic, pure and complex and wonderful.

It was over in seconds. Once the figure had completely disintegrated, Meera released the magic by closing her hand into a fist. She had never looked away from Cassandra's watchful, protective, encouraging gaze and could not, now.

Of course it was Varric who managed to find something to say: “Holy Maker’s balls, Princess, what did you just _do_?!” 

“I opened a rift into the Fade. The resultant magic collapses upon itself, dragging whatever is nearby through.” Her voice was steady as if she were repeating a transcription to the High Enchanter. Still, Cassandra reached out and firmly squeezed her shoulder. The Seeker raised her voice to carry:

“A gift from the Maker.” It is what she had said earlier in the day, when Meera had sought her out. Meera had known she would say it. She had been surprised it had felt comforting.

“I realize this is a weapon. I know that no matter what promises I might make, some of you will not be reassured.” Meera forced herself to raise her eyes, to seek out Cullen. To let him see how much the Inquisition mattered to her. She needed him to see at least that much, if he could see nothing else. “I am a mage. Some might call me a maleficar. I choose to believe I am still the Herald. I choose to believe the Maker and his Bride still have work for me to do. I choose to believe in us, in the Inquisition, and to use the tools I am given.”

She refused to feel anything when Cullen bowed, once from the waist, stiff and formal, and abandoned the field.

  


OoO

  


“You're doing her wrong, Curly.” Varric had waited until after supper, but just, to approach Cullen. He'd wanted to talk himself down from 'killing the bastard' to 'beat the shit out of the Commander' and he had. Mostly. 

“Not now, Varric.” It was a clear dismissal. Cullen didn’t even bother to look up from the map spread on the table before him to deliver it. Of course the dwarf ignored him. 

“Yes, now.” Varric tapped his fingers on the table impatiently until Cullen growled and looked up, startled to see Varric’s eyes were hard as flint. “She thinks you’re still mad at her about the mages.”

“I _am_ still angry with her about the mages!” The admission was out before he could stop himself. Cullen closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. “Varric. This is none of your business.”

“Oh, Curly, the Princess is my business.” Somehow, Varric made the nickname sound intimate, sibilant and sweet. 

“Why do you call her that?” He didn’t want to know, or care. There was no snap in his voice, no heat in his gaze. The curled fist inside of him that was Meera had not tightened unbearably in need.

He wanted, desperately, to convince himself all of that was true.

Varric smirked slyly. “It’s the accent. And the way she carries herself. Noble to the bone, that one.” The dwarf’s lips uncurled, flattened. “She was also stuck in a tower for a long time.”

“Yes.” Cullen raised an eyebrow, determined to keep his face impassive. “Are you implying she needs to be rescued?”

Varric shook his head, gave Cullen a level look. “Curl…Cullen. Listen. I sorta know where you’re coming from, mages, Templars, all that shit. Kirkwall, right?” Varric’s gesture looked obscene. “She doesn’t need to be rescued, but she might want to be.”

Cullen dropped his head, sighed. He tried to forget that Varric had been in Kirkwall, too, in the thick of it, next to Hawke every step, even as the city burned. “I’m trying to do my job, Varric.”And he was no one’s idea of a prince.

“Good, great, fine, do your blighted job. Does that mean you can’t be a man, too?”

“It’s a distraction for both of us, Varric, one we can ill-afford.”

“Nugshit. If that’s true, you better start talking to all the people in camp who are humping like bunnies.” When Cullen blushed, Varric chuckled. “Face it, sex is fun.”

“Yes, well.” Cullen cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, I don’t think Mee…the Herald is looking for a quick tumble with the Commander of her armies.”

“You don’t want a quick tumble, either, Curly. Not how you’re made, not with a girl like her.” Varric’s eyes had softened, his voice taking on that persuasive edge he did so well. “She likes you. That’s kinda a big deal.”

He was so tempted. So very, very tempted. Quick tumble, long, slow seduction, words whispered on soft skin in the dark, sweet curves and gentle kisses, shared laughter and a voice that helped chase away the demons.

And even as Cullen yearned, he could not shake the memories of a woman with an impassive face who stood on a hill in the snow and ripped open the Fade.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, defeated. “She’s a mage, Varric. I can’t just…forget.”

Varric’s fist slammed down onto the table, his voice a frustrated growl as Cullen’s eyes opened and then narrowed. “Andraste’s asshole! You’re not a Templar anymore!” 

Varric nearly reached across the table and slammed his fist into Cullen’s face when Cullen’s mouth turned mutinous. “Get over it _right the fuck now_! That girl is in love with you!”

The way Cullen reeled back, his face going completely blank, every bit of color leeched away, was almost as satisfying as if Varric _had_ punched him. Almost. Because it was, because Meera mattered and Cullen mattered to Meera, and because Varric _had_ been in Kirkwall, he gentled his voice.

“Don’t keep walking away. Show her you’re something different. Someone worthy of her.”

Varric had almost turned away in disgust when Cullen finally murmured, “And if I’m not?” 

“I think you are. The Seeker thinks you are.” When Cullen sighed, Varric said, quietly, “Don’t make us liars, Curly.”

With a pained exclamation, Cullen turned away from the map. Maybe a walk around the perimeter of the camp, checking the defenses and supplies, might help him to clear his head.

After completing almost a full circuit, and as the sun began to set behind the mountains, he was surprised to nearly stumble over Vivienne and Fiona sitting together before a fire, sharing a pot of tea and speaking in low tones. When he made to move past them with only a nod of acknowledgment, still caught in the whirl of his own thoughts, Fiona called, “A moment, Commander.”

He stopped, suppressing a grumble. “Yes?”

“We are concerned for the girl,” Vivienne said crisply, her beautiful face giving nothing away, smooth teakwood. Beside her, Fiona's own ageless elven face was pinched, her eyes tired.

“I do believe everyone is concerned, Madame de Fer.”

“The magic she performed today, how it must have tormented your Templar senses,” Vivienne purred, satisfaction and something more in her tone, a knot Cullen couldn't untangle.

He saw how Fiona stiffened, her mouth opening, and he raised a hand, shaking his head slightly. She subsided with a frown. “Her magic today was unknown to me but not uncomfortable.”

That was a half-truth at best. The few vials of lyrium in his personal stores had been lost at Haven; his Templar senses were past barely functioning and well into failing completely. According to the other few Templars in the camp, however, Meera's casting had not caused any undue magical alarm for them. 

No, their alarm had everything to do with their training, the need to leash what they didn’t understand. He had been raised a Templar, had served, had been tortured. He _knew_. And yet, here he was, hoping Varric was right and he was prince enough to rescue the princess. 

Pathetic.

“It is certainly something forbidden in the Circles,” Vivienne prompted.

“Yes,” he said, rolling the syllable around on his tongue. He paused, considered carefully, and then decided to the void with it. If he was wrestling with the implications of the magic, perhaps they were, too. “But why?”

Vivienne raised one perfectly sculpted brow. The corner of Fiona's mouth twitched. A voice from behind him, male and smooth and Tevinter, murmured, “Why, Commander, you aren't just a little Chantry puppet!” Dorian, his trademark smirk in place, came into view, moving to stand next to Fiona.

“You know very well why such magic is not allowed within the Circles, Commander.”

Slowly, Cullen shook his head, frowning at Vivienne. “I know what I've been told, that magic should never rule over man.”

“Changed your mind?” Dorian drawled.

“Not...precisely. Someone told me recently that magic is like any other weapon.” Cullen drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, then drew it from its scabbard in one smooth motion. He studied the blade thoughtfully. “This blade is not evil. It has no ill intent. That it is sharp, capable of causing great harm, even death, is part of its nature.” He fell naturally into a guard stance, the weapon held at the ready. “As the one wielding the weapon, I control whether I use it to protect, to defend, or to pillage.”

“Yes, but the sword is useless if you are untrained or unskilled,” Vivienne broke in impatiently. “Magic works in quite the opposite manner.”

Using the tip of the sword, gauging his distance very carefully, Cullen flicked the lid from the teapot that sat on a low stool between the two women, watching as they both flinched and Dorian looked amused. “So only unharrowed apprentices and apostates are capable of harming someone?”

“Come, darling, do be reasonable. All mages are capable of causing harm. It is those unharrowed apprentices and apostates, however, who are more likely to do so involuntarily through ignorance.” Vivienne sniffed, looking from him to the lid meaningfully. Once again using the tip of his weapon, he lifted the lid from the ground and set it back on the teapot. This time, Dorian snickered and even the twitch at the corner of Fiona's mouth turned into a small smile.

“So we should teach them control, as we teach soldiers to properly hold a sword, as we teach scribes to properly write their letters, and so forth.” Re-sheathing his weapon, Cullen raised an eyebrow. “I don't lock my soldiers in the barracks and tell them their weapons are evil, Vivienne. In fact, I encourage them to have lives, to write home, to have a drink.”

“To be people,” Dorian said approvingly. “Exactly! So maybe as a mage I can summon a demon in a bar fight. Pfft, I can also draw a dagger. Either way, very messy and bloody and the person is still dead.”

“The more someone is pressed into a corner, the more likely they are to use the weapons at their disposal,” Fiona added quietly. “Magic should serve man, that is true. But magic is a thing; it is not the people who are wielding it.” She turned to Vivienne. “The Herald is a good woman, Vivienne. You have seen this.”

“She is powerful.”

“Powerful does not have to mean corrupted.” And he, thought Cullen in disgust as the words tumbled from his mouth, was a Maker-damned half-wit. He was a Templar; that didn't make him Meredith. Meera was a mage; that didn't make her Uldred.

“That is true, darling.” As he met three faces, all mages, all wearing the same encouraging expression, Cullen realized he had been cleverly manipulated.

“Maker's breath. Tell me you gave the same speech to the Herald.”

Fiona sighed and shook her head. “She has taken to her tent. Mother Giselle is with her. They have turned away visitors.”

“I wasn't the only one to give her grief, then,” Cullen murmured.

Vivienne looked away briefly as Dorian shook his head. “No.”

“I will try to speak with her.” He turned to go and then paused. “Thank you.”

  


OoO

  


He was called into a Council meeting before he could approach Meera. He, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra argued fruitlessly, around in circles, over blame and supplies and what should or even could happen next. As he turned away in disgust, he was arrested by the sight of Meera standing near the entrance to the healer’s tent, watching. She looked tired and pale, her mouth drawn, her stance so impossibly lonely. He started to go to her, to make amends, when Mother Giselle's voice suddenly filled the darkness.

“ _Shadows fall_

_and hope has fled._

_Steel your heart_

_the dawn will come.”_

It was a holy hymn to Andraste, half-forgotten from his Chantry education. Leliana was the first to join, lifting her voice in praise, but soon many voices of the Inquisition, his included, were united, echoing from the mountains. Meera stood, quiet and still and alone, as the healers, the scouts, the enlisted men and women, the mages, the Templars, all of the Inquisition, saluted or knelt, looking to her.

The spring green eyes that haunted his dreams lifted to his, wet and shining and hopeful, and he did what he should have done earlier in the day, in the clearing: he drew his sword and saluted her, fist to heart.

“ _The night is long_

_and the path is dark._

_Look to the sky_

_for one day soon_

_the dawn will come.”_

  



	12. Trials 5.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trials 5.1:  
>  _Maker, though I am but one, I have called in your name._  
>  _And those who come to serve will know your glory._  
>  _I remembered for them._  
>  _They will see what can be gained,_  
>  _And though we are few against the wind, we are yours._

“One more snowbank and I'm staging a coup.” 

Meera shot Dorian a superior look. “No one would follow you except Bull.” And just to tease him further, she hummed a few bars of “The Dawn Will Come”. She should not be quite so happy. They were leagues from civilization, low on supplies, surrounded by snow and mountains and more snow, and yet she felt amazing, cleansed and renewed, reborn.  


They believed in her. She was humbled and blessed and a little drunk on the feeling of belonging.  


Dorian grunted. “Become the de facto leader of a bunch of savages and suddenly you're a bitch.”  


“Could be worse, Sparkler.” When Dorian raised his dark eyebrows at Varric, the dwarf grinned in wicked glee. “She could have threatened to suck you into the Fade.”  


It took both she and Dorian a minuted before he made a face and she laughed, shocked and embarrassed. “Varric!”  


From behind, Cullen called out, “Share the joke!”  


“Yes, do. The view is tedious.”  


When Varric stopped, bent forward at the waist, and waggled his arse at the Seeker, Meera’s fit of giggles had her stopping to catch her breath. Even Solas smiled as he and a muttering Dorian continued on.  


Once Cassandra and Cullen drew level with Meera and Varric, Cullen nudged Meera gently with his hip. “Dwarves. I would rather hear whatever made you laugh before.”  


She stiffened, just a bit, some of the mirth dying out of her face. Varric gave Cullen an encouraging look even as he and the Seeker fell back. When Meera started trudging forward again, Cullen stayed with her. She didn’t answer him but neither did she move away.  


It was progress. Slow and steady progress, just as they had been making for a month now, up through the snow and the mountains. Behind them stretched the rest of the Inquisition, who and what they’d managed to salvage, in a long, broken, unsteady line, moving north as the Herald had bid. There was a place, she’d told them, a place they could rebuild: Skyhold.  


So they would. Just as he would rebuild her trust in him by showing her his attitude toward mages and magic was changing. He was working on it, careful to include Meera in many of his plans. He’d eased some of the restrictions on the mages, added the willing into the guard rotations, set others to using their magic to augment the thousand mundane tasks it took to move an army and its retainers through the mountains. A few had even approached him to join the enlisted men and women. When some of the Templars asked to be included, Cullen had a mind to make a special tactical unit out of them and was pleased when she voiced the same opinion.  


There had been a minor victory just the night before when she'd brought him a bowl of stew, bread, and a mug of ale where he was working on adding their day's travels to the map. She'd stayed while he ate, pointing out a landmark he'd missed. He'd seen her surprise when he handed her the quill. She'd waved him back but he could tell she was touched by the gesture.  


“Dorian said if he saw one more snowbank he was staging a coup.” Her voice startled him out of his musings. “When I told him only Bull would follow him, Varric said it could be worse.”  


Cursing herself for a fool when he didn't say anything, she sent him a sidelong glance, only to find his warm golden gaze on her face. His lips quirked in that little half smile, one of his eyebrows rising, and she felt her cheeks heat up again. Her courage almost failed, so she said in a breathless rush, “Varric said 'she could have threatened to suck you into the Fade'.”  


She’d expected him to blush, to be embarrassed. She did not expect the way his pupils expanded, the skin over his cheekbones drawing taut, the rich, rumbling sound of his laughter that was more intimate than a caress. Her body reacted as if he’d stroked her from breasts to hips: a low, liquid pull in her belly, her nipples tightening, a shiver.  


Shocked and surprised and suddenly much too hot surrounded by snow and ice, she stumbled, only his hand on her elbow keeping her from falling. Their bodies brushed, layers of cloaks and armor and robes, and yet Meera suddenly felt exposed, hungry. She tried to take in a deep breath and then found it trapped in her lungs as his eyes dropped to her chest. Impossibly her nipples tightened even further, rasping against the cloth of her breastband, sending another dizzying spiral of heat through her belly. She must have made some sort of sound because he jerked his gaze back to her face, his hand contracting around her arm. She swayed toward him, just a little, mortified when he released her, his half-smile maddening and knowing.  


She fled.  


Cullen was whistling when he topped the ridge and saw the sprawling stone fortress built into the side of the mountain. He paused to admire the view of both Skyhold in the distance and Meera's lovely curves closer at hand, several of the Inquisition passing by. It was Sera who stopped next to him, kicking snow playfully against his legs, her smile wide and knowing as she followed the direction of his gaze. Meera chose that moment to glance over her shoulder. He waved, covering a laugh in a cough when she sent him a fulminating look.  


“Got her knickers in a twist, didja?”  


When he sent the elf a mildly disapproving glance, she laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. “Could use the tangle, that one. Yer all tight-arsed, betcha need one, too.”  


He choked and felt his cheeks flame. “Sera…”  


When she just rolled her eyes, he asked, patiently, “Was it you who put the snake in my boot?” Her giggle was confirmation enough, but Sera nodded, looking proud. He wondered where in the bleak winter landscape she’d managed to find the little reptile?  


“Yeah. Put a frog in her bed, ribbit, but she laughed. Told me she didn’t like princes.”  


“Oh?” he asked thoughtfully, recalling Varric’s advice. And, again, where had she found a frog?  


“Princes are boring and she’s already a queen, right? She likes commanders, lots of armor, curly hair.” Sera shrugged, her smile turning sly. “Big stiff swords.”  


“Did she tell you that?” he asked suspiciously, feeling as if the elf must be poking fun at him. He certainly hadn’t kept his interest in Meera a secret.  


“Yeah. We’re friends.” Suddenly serious in that way only Sera could manage, she jabbed him in the ribs with her sharp elbow. “Cully, she’s a sweet. You’re all rawr. Together, perfect. Don’t fuck it up, yeah?”  


As the archer skipped ahead, calling out to Meera, Cullen wondered how many more of the Inquisition would offer him advice. 

He couldn’t seem to care.  


OoO 

They reached Skyhold by evening of the next day. The keep was old and defensible but had been abandoned for some time; it needed work. Leliana sent out ravens immediately to known allies with invitations for merchants, laborers, supplies, and soldiers. Within a week, pilgrims from all over Thedas began to arrive, seeking sanctuary or to join, many of them full of stories about the famed Herald of Andraste. This required endless meetings about waste removal, billeting, supply allocation, defenses, all the countless details of turning Skyhold into both a working base of operations for the Inquisition and a small village. In the middle was Meera who was everywhere at once: helping Blackwall and Cullen to set and test their defenses, making sure the Chargers and Bull had an area to themselves, signing endless letters for Josephine and Leliana, and reassuring herself that every one of her inner circle had what they needed. 

She was already leading the Inquisition. All that remained was for them to name her Inquisitor. 

“This puts her in more danger,” he murmured, his arms crossed over his chest as he, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra discussed the logistics of the choice. 

“But not new danger, Commander,” Leliana returned, though her eyes softened at the unhappy look he sent her. 

“Do you think she is unsuited to the task?” Cassandra asked in surprise. 

“No! No, of course not,” he denied, shaking his head for emphasis. 

“Commander.” Josephine laid a gentle hand on his arm, her face sympathetic. “She is already leading us. Naming her as such will bring more people to our cause.” 

He grimaced, his stomach tied into knots. He didn’t disagree, as much as he wished to. He would just have to make sure she was safe. He acceded with ill grace. “All right.” 

“Excellent. Cullen, if you and Josephine would encourage everyone to gather in the courtyard? Leliana, the sword, because here she is now.” 

Meera stopped at the top of the steps, raising an eyebrow when all four of the Council turned to her, Cassandra beckoning her over. She approached cautiously, a little disappointed when everyone save Cassandra voiced excuses and wandered away. “Walk with me, Meera?” 

“Of course.” She followed Cassandra out of the courtyard and up the steps, content to watch the Inquisition work busily around them. She loved it here in Skyhold, the breathtaking views of the mountains, the tumbling stoneworks, the warmth of the undercroft, surrounded on all sides by people for whom she cared. She enjoyed the work of the Inquisition, the rows and columns of figures, the directing of people, the planning, the building. “I think I’d have made a wonderful Bann,” Meera murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud until Casandra stopped, her voice amused. 

“Yes. Instead, you are here with the Inquisition.” Cassandra’s face turned grave. “I believe that is what drew Corypheus to you.” 

Meera frowned, raising an eyebrow. “He was impressed by my ability to do sums?” 

Cassandra’s laugh was a bark of sound. “No, and before you mention the anchor, I do not think it is the reason you still stand here, thinking yourself a good Bann.” 

As one, they turned to continue their stroll, ascending the stairs that led to Skyhold’s massive front entrance. “Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us.” 

Meera paused uncertainly as they topped the first set of stairs; here they formed a little platform before turning and widening. Atop the platform stood Leliana, head slightly bowed, a gleaming sword laid across her outstretched hands. Cassandra’s eyes were kind, her expression hopeful and determined as she gently grasped Meera’s elbow and led her closer to the Spymaster before stepping away. “The Inquisition requires a leader; the one who has _already_ been leading it.” 

As she, Cassandra, and Leliana met near the center of the small platform, rising noise in the courtyard below had Meera turning, uncertainty spiraling into anxiety when she saw all of the faces turned upward, watching the tableau she and the other two women made. It was akin to the night of the song yet not; then there had only been hope in the expressions turned to her. Today, in the full midday sun of Skyhold, there was anticipation, need, and a weight to the gazes of the Inquisition, an expectation. Behind her, Cassandra murmured, 

“You, Meera.” 

“But I’m …” She almost said nobody, almost protested that she was a mage, that she was both unsuited to and unworthy of leadership despite her earlier romantic notion of being a Bann. Then she saw Cullen in the crowd below, standing next to Josephine, that little quirk to his mouth in evidence. As their eyes met, his smile grew and he gave her a small, encouraging nod, his warm amber gaze heavy with confidence, confidence in _her_. And she heard him again, whispering in her ear as she was lost in the darkness after the Conclave, his voice and touch calling her back from the Void: 

“ _The one who repents, who has faith,_  


_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_  


_She shall know true peace.”_

Turning before doubts overwhelmed her, she reached for the hilt of the gleaming pyrophite sword, the dragon twined about its hilt catching the light, refracting it. Lifting it, surprised to find it balanced for her hand, she said, firmly, voice carrying, “I’ll defeat Corypheus standing with them, not over them.” 

“Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra agreed, her voice gruff, dark eyes shining. She, Leliana, and Meera turned as one to face the crowd as Cassandra called, “Have our people been told?” 

Josephine stepped forward, her smile bright, her joy palpable. “They have, and soon the world.” 

“Commander, will they follow?” Cassandra asked. 

For a moment, Meera and Cullen hung suspended, their eyes communicating silently across the distance, promises meant to be kept, to be cherished. Then he strode away, across the line of soldiers, his voice deep and resonant, thrumming inside Meera, “Inquisition! Will you follow?” 

The exclamations were raucous, arms lifted in salute. 

“Will you fight?” 

Swords banged on shields, the shouts and sounds blending together into a sort of battle cry. 

“Will we triumph?” 

Pandemonium reigned in the courtyard, a fever pitch of optimism, anticipation, and eagerness, as Cullen wheeled back toward Meera, drawing his sword, blade pointed to the sky, a fierceness, a pride in his expression as he looked to her. Many more swords were drawn behind him as he cried, “Your leader. Your Herald. Your _Inquisitor_!” 

Hoisting the Inquisition sword high, Meera called flame, a nimbus of fire dancing around the blade, and chanted, “Maker, though I am but one, I have called in your name, and those who come to serve will know your glory. I remembered for them. They will see what can be gained, and though we are few against the wind, we are yours!” 

The cheers grew to a crescendo. In that moment, Meera felt Corypheus should look upon them. 

And despair. 

OoO 

“Varric, I have things to do!” Meera almost stomped her foot in agitation when the dwarf just offered her a drink, knocking back his own with a hiss when she declined. They were somewhere on the battlements above Skyhold, waiting on one of Varric’s contacts who might have some information about Corypheus. From the way Varric was behaving, drinking heavily and shifting restlessly from foot to foot, Meera had a terrible suspicion Leliana had been right: Varric had brought the Champion of Kirkwall to Skyhold, and Cassandra was going to kill him. 

“Yeah, yeah, Princess, your Inquisitorialness, please. It’s worth it for…ah, there she is,” Varric muttered, gesturing expansively to the stairs. Meera turned and had to fight to keep her face still. 

The heavily armored and incredibly tall woman with the wildly curling strawberry blonde hair and exquisite, doll-like face sketched a mocking little bow as she stopped before Meera, her storm-cloud grey eyes tired and somehow a little lost. Her voice was a deep, husky contralto, gently mocking. “Delia Hawke, at your service.” 

Meera inclined her head in turn. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Champion.” 

Hawke shook her head, full, pouting mouth curling into a little smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not so much anymore. Just Hawke is fine. ‘swhat everyone calls me.” 

“I thought Hawke here might have some advice on Corypheus,” Varric opined, smiling lopsidedly at Hawke. “You and I did fight him, after all.” 

Throughout the ensuing conversation, Meera found the Champion to be sarcastic, borderline rude, and incredibly entertaining. Hawke reminded her of an odd mix of Sera’s irreverence for authority and Bull’s dogged determination to be both humorous and stalwart. In other circumstances, before the Inquisition, Meera would have avoided someone like her, intimidated by her larger-than-life personality. Now, even though they discussed matters of such grave importance, Meera found herself warming to the Champion. 

And incredibly curious about the grief that moved occasionally across her stunning face. 

“All right, let me see if I understand.” Meera lifted her fingers, ticking off points as she went. “Corypheus was controlling Grey Wardens in Kirkwall. You and Varric and some other people with colorful names killed him, so that he is alive is curious. You have a Grey Warden friend who was investigating red lyrium and is now hiding somewhere near Crestwood. It’s possible Corypheus is responsible for the disappearance of the Grey Wardens and for the red lyrium Templars who attacked with him in Haven.” 

Hawke nodded, still smirking. “Aren’t you the smart one, Quizzy.” 

Meera raised an eyebrow, barely managing not to allow her own mouth to curve in answer. “I prefer astute.” 

“Hey, you wanna call yourself an ass, no skin off my nose.” 

Varric’s anxious, “Hawke!” was lost in Meera’s nod of approval. The Champion’s smile widened, something loosening in her stance, and Meera saw her opportunity. 

“Varric, go away,” she said, using her newly-discovered Inquisitor voice, the one that made people scurry away to do her bidding. He hesitated, looking torn, until Hawke fluttered her fingers at him. 

“Go, Varric. I won’t break your new girlfriend.” 

Muttering about women in general and two in particular, the dwarf stomped off, already weaving the meeting between the Champion of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor into a story. And considering informing Cullen that not only was Hawke here, she was talking to the Inquisitor. 

Once his footsteps faded on the stone, the two women paused, eyeing each other in the way of powerful, intelligent, head-strong females, leaders of men, who weren’t sure if they should, or even could, be friends. Eventually, Hawke sighed, shook her head, sank down onto the stone rampart behind her so she could be more on a level with the Inquisitor. Poor girl was incredibly short, but at least she was curvy. And those _eyes_ , Maker bless her, sympathetic and so sweetly spring. “We gonna stare at each other all day?” 

“Delia. Tell me why you’re sad.” Meera’s tone was gentle and inexorable and Hawke shuddered, suddenly understanding the force that was the Inquisitor. She wanted to sit and spill her guts at the younger woman’s feet, to have her hair stroked, to be promised everything would be okay. _Shit, Hawke, you're losin' it._

“You’re not my mother,” Hawke said belligerently, scuffing a toe of her boot along the stone at her feet. She didn’t look up as the Inquisitor moved closer but she did start, jerking back a little when she saw a small hand ghost along her right pauldron, the tingle of magic following in its wake. Hawke was no stranger to mages: her late father and her sister, her lover. Though she knew it was spirit magic, healing like Anders’s, the Inquisitor’s casting bathed her in the heat and damp of a summer shower, washing through her with a cleansing that left her muscles more limber, her vision clearer, her mind eased. And her tongue loose. 

“I had to leave him alone. I promised him I wouldn’t but I did.” The words rushed out, tumbling over themselves, and Hawke winced. She lifted her eyes to the Inquisitor’s face, a pleading she hated entering her voice, “Anders. I’m…he’s my…the minstrels are wrong, okay?” 

When the Inquisitor only nodded, Hawke took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, slow exhale, shoulders sagging. She hadn’t realized how hard it was going to be not to have someone to talk with after so many years of being crowded by friendship. Varric and Fenris didn’t understand why she’d let Anders live and Bethany had fled Kirkwall with Aveline and Donnic at Hawke’s insistence. Isabela had taken Merrill with her on her ship and talking to Anders was still a minefield of words they couldn’t say. And Andraste's knickerweasels Meera’s eyes were so kind and patient, lacking judgment. “He isn’t a hero or a monster. Or maybe he’s both.” _Ugh, you sound so smart there, Hawke._

“He helped start us, the mages, on a path to freedom.” Meera tried to keep her voice neutral. Her father had sent her a carefully worded letter soon after the war had begun, sparked by Anders’s destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall. She was expected to remain in her Circle, to keep it whole, to support the Templars. When her Circle had voted, she’d abstained. It had been a minor act of rebellion on her part. Now she was the Inquisitor and she could see the value of mage freedom, if not condone the act of violence that had precipitated it. 

“Yes, but he didn’t have to do it like he did!” Hawke shouted, banging her fist on the stone, hardly feeling the pain, still riding the wave of Meera’s earlier healing spell. “And now all those people are dead and we can’t ever stop running and I don’t know what to do!” 

Hawke’s shoulders heaved in a pained gasp, her head drooping, her voice a tattered whisper, “I always know what to do.” Miserably, she sniffed back tears she refused to shed. “I love him, Meera. I love him and I want to keep him and I think maybe he wishes he were dead.” 

“Are you angry because of what he did or because you already forgave him for it?” Meera asked mildly, her tender heart squeezing at the broken, drowning look Hawke gave her before she buried her face in her hands. 

Hawke thought of how Anders turned to her in the night, his mouth and hands rough, bruising, the thrust of his body desperate, how he would weep afterward into the curve of her neck, trembling and sorry for his lack of gentleness. And she would feel ashamed for wishing he wouldn’t apologize, that he took her because he couldn’t live without her, not so that he could chase Vengeance and the nightmares away. She thought of how he’d stood in the doorway of the little cabin where they’d last sheltered, his hand on her cheek, his eyes and voice and gestures his own, and whispered, “Come back to me, my heart,” and how she’d felt a little relieved that he couldn’t come with her. 

“What kind of person loves someone who hates themselves?” Hawke asked finally, letting her hands fall back into her lap. “How do I keep from hating him, too?” 

As Meera watched Delia struggle with herself and thought of Cullen, the Champion suddenly rose to her feet, her face firming, her hand settling on the hilt of the sword at her hip. “Knight-Captain,” she drawled, eyes focused over Meera’s shoulder. 

A shiver of awareness told Meera whom Delia was eyeing so balefully. Her suspicion was confirmed when Cullen answered evenly, “It’s only Commander now, Champion,” and stepped up next to Meera, aligning himself at her side. When she peeked up at him, he slid a gauntleted arm, his sword arm, around her waist. He did not turn his watchful gaze from Hawke but his gesture was lost on neither woman. 

When the Inquisitor blushed becomingly, leaning into former Knight-Captain Cullen just a bit as her own arm slid hesitantly around his waist in turn, Hawke’s eyebrows winged to her hairline, her own tangled emotions forgotten in a rush of astonishment. “Holy Maker’s tits, are you fucking a _mage_ ?” 

“Hawke!” There was a reprimand in his voice, an echo of the starched Templar Hawke had known in Kirkwall. However, the way his arm tightened around the Inquisitor’s waist protectively, the way she bit her lip and looked down at her feet told Hawke maybe she was being a little insensitive. 

As usual. 

“Er, sorry there, Quizzy,” Hawke muttered, letting her hand fall from her sword in a conciliatory gesture. She tried a smile, knew it was more a grimace. Meera, however, saw it for what it was and shook her head. 

“No harm done, Delia.” Then the Inquisitor peeked up at Cullen, a sly smile curling the corner of her mouth, and murmured in an aside, “Templars, even former ones, like to be sure they have control first. So the answer is, not quite yet.” 

The stunned expression that crossed Cullen’s face was enough to send Hawke into a fit of inelegant, snorting laughter. He only encouraged her mirth as he turned red from his hairline to his chin and tried to sputter some sort of intelligent response that ended in a frustrated, “Maker’s breath!” 

“Andraste’s _ass_ it feels good to laugh again,” Hawke managed finally, wiping tears from her cheeks, refusing to admit not all of them had come from the laughter. “And I think you’ve shocked poor Cullen to death.” 

“No, the shocking comes later, too,” Meera couldn’t help murmuring, pleased when Cullen’s hand on her hip tightened, his gaze darkening as he glanced down at her. She let her fingers slide up under the edge of his cloak, spreading them gently over his lower back, near his spine, enjoyed the way his pupils expanded and his breath hitched. 

“Hawke has been here half a day and is already a bad influence on you,” Cullen managed, barely able to keep himself from sliding his hand down to squeeze her bottom. Only Hawke’s amused, knowing countenance and merry grey eyes kept his baser impulses in check. Barely. 

“Can’t blame me.” Suddenly much more cheerful than she’d been in weeks, Hawke laughed again. “And if you two are going to go all kissy-faced on me, I’m going to go find Varric and make him give me a drink. Or ten.” 

“No, wait.” Meera reached out a hand and grasped Hawke’s wrist, noting how both Cullen and Hawke went unnaturally still. “Stop it, both of you,” she said crisply. “I like her, Cullen, and I want to keep her.” 

“She’s not a pet, Meera,” he muttered, but Meera felt him relax against her, his hand lightly stroking her hip. She couldn’t stop the shiver, blushing again as Hawke leered at them. Even as she leered, however, she struggled with herself, finally turning her hand over to grasp the much smaller one of the Inquisitor. 

“No, but I…I could use a friend,” she managed, pleased when Meera graced her with another of those regal, go-to-the-Void nods. 

“Good. I will make arrangements with Josephine to find you a place to sleep.” Meera’s hand squeezed, gently. “About the other,” she said, seeing Hawke understood as the mirth slid out of her face in a rush of sorrow. “In the absence of light, shadows thrive.” 

As Hawke watched, Meera looked up once more at Cullen. His face softened, his smile warming his eyes to softest gold, approving of the mage at his side, this former Templar Knight-Captain who’d taken Bethany to the Gallows but stood with the mages in Kirkwall. And the Inquisitor, a mage whom half of the world feared because of the enormous power she wielded, a woman who had been locked in a tower, her freedom curtailed by Templars, bloomed under this former Templar’s regard, her smile dimpled and sweet. 

They should be on opposite sides of the war Anders had ignited. Instead, they stood together, and they _shone_. 

“ _Come back to me, my heart.”_

Two days later, the day after the Inquisitor set out “to see some shambling corpses about some missing soldiers”, Delia was pulled aside by the Commander of the Inquisition and handed two loose sheaves of parchment, a bundle of letters, a map, and a heavy purse. When she read the first piece of parchment she was again visited by the absurd urge to cry, and she never cried. When she read the second, her face firmed, hardened, pared down to the determination and grit that had named her Champion of Kirkwall. The map, bundle of letters, and purse she tucked into her pack. 

The handshake she shared with Cullen was a vow, steady and true. 

Unlike the Inquisitor, Delia Hawke left Skyhold alone. 


	13. Song of Songs, Fragmented

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Song of Solomon ](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Song+of+Solomon+1&version=ESV)

Stomach cramps, sharp and severe, woke Cullen sometime in the night, had him stumbling to the basin he kept near his bed, spitting bile and saliva. He hung there, suspended, breath coming in short, hard pants, as he tried to master his traitorous body. 

He had not had a dose of lyrium since the destruction of Haven. Though the Inquisition had a steady, reliable supply, untainted by the dangerous red strain, and though Leliana had brought him several vials, Cullen had not let a drop pass his lips. But oh, Andraste forgive him, did he _crave_ it. 

As he retched again, his stomach muscles already sore from the combination of withdrawal, dry-heaves, and lack of true rest, he wondered for the thousandth time if he were doing the right thing for the Inquisition, and for Meera, by remaining as Commander. He felt dangerously balanced on a knife's-edge between his addiction and his myriad duties, his body betraying him at every turn even as his Templar abilities slipped through his grasp. He was very much afraid he was a liability they, and by extension she, could ill afford. 

He'd promised himself he would help keep her safe. And though he was a selfish bastard and wanted her safety to be best served in his arms and eventually in his bed, he wasn't so addle-brained as to believe he was in any fit state to be of use to her. Maker damn him for a fool, even if his Sera-named "big stiff sword" was working, it was possible it wouldn't stand up to the strain he was under. 

"And that would just be about enough humiliation to make me run myself through with my _actual_ sword," Cullen muttered, pressing his forehead against the cool porcelain of the basin, a laugh tickling the back of his throat. What a tangled, hopeless mess he was. 

Since it seemed the sickness had passed, for now, he hauled himself gingerly to his feet and even more carefully climbed down the ladder to the floor below. Cassandra had huffed at him impatiently when she'd discovered his loft sleeping arrangements, pointing out the danger due to his thrashing nightmares and late nights of retching. He agreed, mostly, but it was soothing to have his blankets and furs away from his desk, to see the stars so close overhead. The hole in the roof helped, too, when he had the night fevers. 

After lighting a couple of the candles scattered about, he paused near his desk, not quite ready to sink into his chair and get back to work but knowing going back to bed would be futile. He could strap on his arms and armor and head out into the yard, work until he was exhausted enough to sleep, but that inevitably led to questions he wasn't prepared to answer. There was probably a game of cards or some other bit of frivolity to be had in the tavern they'd cleaned out and started to refurbish, but he'd already given Hawke and Josephine the bulk of his coin and didn't feel like company. 

"And that is a terrible lie, Rutherford," he grumbled to himself with another weak laugh, finally giving in to his still shaky legs and sinking down into his desk chair. He did want company: he wanted Meera's company. Her sweet tinkling laugh, the surprised hitch in her breath when he touched her casually, the way she had started biting her lip and dropping her eyes to his mouth, just begging to be kissed. He hadn't kissed her, yet, mostly because she had yet to return from the field. 

Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a pile of letters, tugging away the leather thong that tied them loosely together. Smoothing out the one on top, he absently picked up the little figurine of an armored Andraste that he used to hold down some of his finished reports, stroking it and hearing her voice as he reread her most recent missive. 

_Cullen,_

_There have been no dragon sightings here in the Fallow Mire. Thankfully no bears, either, but there are many, many walking dead._

_I think I would have preferred the bears._

_Why, exactly, would anyone live in a swamp? It is dirty, smelly, and I have mud in places I cannot mention in polite company. Luckily, the only people here are Dorian, Cassandra, and Sera, and none of them can be considered polite. At least they are company in this wretched place._

_I desperately want a bath. Please lie to me when I return and tell me I have a beautiful copper tub waiting for me. And a big feather bed with extra blankets. If someone asks why I get the luxuries and everyone else must share the bathing house and sleep in tents, remind them that I am the Inquisitor. Or you can remind them I am a delicate noble mage flower who has had her own bathing chamber and fancy grown up bed since she was out of the nursery. Let's not mention I had to share while I was an Apprentice, though, might ruin the tactical advantage._

_I am mostly jesting, though I do miss long soaks in the warm water of a proper tub. And bergamot-scented Antivan body oil. I am sadly too much a creature of habit and perhaps miss being spoiled._

Here Cullen had to pause and remind his … sword … that she was not here, rising from a bath, skin pink and glistening, all pretty breasts and sweet thighs and... Clearing his throat, he forced his eyes back to the page and tried to ignore both just how much the vision appealed to him and how hard he was, pressing against his smalls. It wasn't the first time, when reading one of her letters. 

_I hope the soldiers we rescued returned to Skyhold safely. Please ignore Cassandra when she complains of how I attempted to broker a deal with the Avvar who were holding them for ransom instead of killing the tribe outright at the first opportunity. She is telling you the truth, of course, I just prefer you believe I set things on fire first and ask questions after._

"Or shock them." He groaned, briefly dropping his head to his desk in an attempt to cool his overheated imagination. He could still feel the way her small hand had felt stroking across his back under his cloak while she teased him in front of Hawke, the way she'd leaned into his touch on her hip, mischief causing her eyes to dance. Turning so his cheek lay against the wood of the desk, he closed his eyes, having already memorized most of the rest of the letter. 

_Also ignore Cassandra's disgust that I have recruited one of the Avvar for the Inquisition. He should be arriving not far behind the Inquisition soldiers. Please, Cullen, find him something useful to do. Amund is a Sky Watcher and I believe he has some important insights he can share. I am not sure how much you know of Avvar customs or lore but the Lady of the Sky is their death deity. It is said she rules the wind; Sky Watchers are her priests. They..._

_I am lecturing you. You do not deserve it, as I have been told my lectures are boring and tedious. Please accept the enclosed statue of an armored Andraste with my most sincere apologies. I think her expression is quite enraptured. Perhaps she is dreaming of the Maker? Or something else entirely. She was, after all, a mortal woman with a mortal husband. One of the Dissonant Verses, in fact, possibly speaks of her love for Maferath, or her more earthly passion for the Maker. There are only fragments remaining and of those, only a handful that I remember:_

" _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine."_

" _By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loved. I sought him, but I found him not."_

" _His mouth is most sweet, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend."_

" _How fair and how pleasant are you, O love, for delights!"_

_It's a lovely bit of poetry. Perhaps a little naughty, too, which makes it all the sweeter._

Cullen managed another pitiful groan as the innocent, erotic imagery caused his cock to throb painfully. He tried, honest to the Maker, not to picture her alone in her tent, thinking of kissing him, of seeking him in her bedroll, of delights and oh Maker's hairy balls he needed to get up right now, put on his armor, and beat a practice dummy to death. 

Instead, he sat up, smoothed the letter once more, and read to the end, determined to master his body in this as in his addiction. 

_We should be home in a fortnight. Your report of missing Inquisition soldiers on the Storm Coast is most troubling. Though it is not quite on our way, I have convinced the rest of my little group we should investigate before we return to Skyhold._

_Yes, before you ask, I did use the Inquisitor voice. Do you think if I used the voice on Josephine, she would find me a bathtub?_

She signed it simply _Meera_ as she had since they'd discovered Skyhold. He tried not to be greedy and wish she'd sign it _With affection, Meera_. Or better yet, _Yours, Meera._

He flipped through the rest of the letters at his elbow, pausing over the first few she'd ever sent him, those precise, dry accounts of her adventures as Herald, with a wry smile. The irony was not lost on him that he still had these when he had managed to salvage little else during the escape from Haven. Something to be said, he supposed, for sentimentality; he'd had them tucked into his armor, close to his heart, since their almost-embrace in the tavern before Redcliffe. Gathering them back together, he retied the strip of leather about them and stowed them back in his desk. Pulling a stack of papers toward him, Cullen set to work, pretending he wasn't still hard as stone and that he didn't pause, often, to gaze rather lustfully at the little statue of Andraste. 

OoO 

She had a large copper bathtub and a big feather bed. 

She'd only returned this morning after weeks away expecting a quick visit to the bathing house, a meeting over the War Table, and then finding somewhere in the Keep or a tent in which to sleep. Instead, Josephine had led her to a door, handed her a key, and said with a smile, "Welcome home, Meera." 

She had her own private quarters in Skyhold. Perhaps the door only locked from the outside and Leliana and Cassandra and even Josephine had a key, perhaps it was close enough to the main hall that she'd hear when state dinners were being held, but it was hers. And Cullen, it had to be Cullen, she'd told no one else about her wish for her own tub and bed, had found them for her. 

The tub, longer than it was wide and bright, hammered reddish gold, was big enough for two people, at least, and would let her sit submerged to her shoulders with room to spare. One end was slightly angled to allow easier access and, she suspected, for relaxing. Situated as it was in its own little alcove just behind and to the left of the bed, there was even a lovely embroidered screen to pull across for privacy. Trailing her fingers across the pretty scene of birds and animals, Meera turned to peer at the bed. 

It looked expansive enough to sleep four, comfortably. A handsome, heavy, squared wooden frame, what she vaguely thought might be called rustic, held a deep feather tick. Spread with royal blue and gold linens, plump pillows, and a luxurious fur throw, Meera knew she'd never seen such a sumptuous, decadent place meant for sleeping. She wanted to wallow in it for hours. After she had a bath in her tub. 

These were not the only wonders in the new private quarters of the Inquisitor. There was a beautiful stone fireplace, a tufted white linen sofa perfect for lounging, stone balconies with breathtaking views, mullioned windows topped with stained glass, a sizable hardwood desk, carpets, and even stout bookshelves. With books, so many wonderful, gorgeous books. 

But it was the bed and the tub which had Meera standing silent and still and realizing with a sinking feeling in her stomach that she was stupid in love with Commander Cullen Rutherford. How could she not love a man who sent her books, who held her when she was scared, who believed in his convictions but wasn't so intractable to never change, who looked at her with desire, and who found her a copper tub and featherbed while in the middle of a war because she sent him a letter asking for luxuries? 

She used her little talent with ice magic to fill the tub with snow, then used her greater talent with fire to turn it into steaming water perfect for bathing. Someone had thoughtfully provided clean linens for drying, soap and … she laughed, the sound a little wild. There was a bottle of Antivan body oil. When she opened it and sniffed, the scent of tea, spicy and sweet and familiar, filled her nose. She stripped hurriedly, climbed in, and started to scrub. Today would not be a day for lounging in her new quarters. No, she suddenly needed to talk to the Commander of the Inquisition about kisses sweeter than wine. 

OoO 

The knock on Cullen's door had him calling a distracted, "Come in!" as he attempted to understand the letter in front of him. The handwriting was precise, certainly, but the content...was it really possible that Venatori agents had infiltrated the palace of the Ferelden monarch, King Alistair Theirin? And had said monarch actually complimented Meera on her lovely eyes and then asked that when she heard from his wife, Queen Aalish Theirin and the Hero of Ferelden, to please remind her she had a husband and children at home who loved her and missed her? 

What sort of man noticed the admittedly adorable eyes of one woman while pining for another? And what sort of king had a scribe who clearly feared no reprisal in copying out his "something something grateful something"? There had also been a line about relaying his respects to the charming Champion of Kirkwall. No one thought Delia Hawke was charming. Not even Anders. 

Cullen thought he might be getting a headache that had nothing to do with lyrium withdrawal. 

"Cullen? Do you have a moment?" 

"Meera!" He rose to his feet in a clumsy rush, suddenly feeling all thumbs and knees. Had he combed his hair this morning? Did his breath smell like a mabari's? Why was she looking so nervous, her face a careful mask? As he attempted to gauge her mood, his hand brushed against the open box on his desk and he blanched. He'd forgotten it was there. He watched as her eyes dropped to it then rose back to his, saw she recognized and knew what it was: a lyrium philter. He'd pulled it out this morning after a long night of night terrors and fever, not sure why, only that its presence comforted him somehow. 

It occurred to him he should tell her about his addiction and his determination to end it. As he spoke, he was surprised and grateful to watch her face soften, to see the Meera he had come to care for moving back into her face, filling up that awful blankness. When she spoke, it was with a gentleness he appreciated. "I trust you, Cullen, and I trust Cassandra. Both of you will do what is best for the Inquisition." 

For a moment, she paused, reaching out to run a small finger across the edge of the box. The lyrium in its little bottle sang to her, a soft hum at the edge of hearing, and she was suddenly fiercely glad she was not a Templar. "Do you know I haven't had a lyrium potion since my Harrowing?" 

"You...haven't." His frown was equal parts concern and consternation. He'd never met a mage who didn't take lyrium to replenish their contact with the Fade and said as much. Her own expression turned wry. 

"My Harrowing was singularly uncomfortable and very short. Part of that was necessity on my part. I had been given to understand I had less time to complete the task than other Apprentices." 

He had to stop the growl in his throat when he thought of her, young and terrified and barely trained, thrust into the Fade with the promise of death through hurried failure. He was sure she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment, his controlled and controlling Inquisitor, so he let her continue to speak, her voice matter-of-fact, her gaze still on the box. 

"I managed to convince the Senior Enchanter to give me a larger dose of lyrium than is usual. According to my studies, it would help anchor me more securely in the Fade." 

"Draw the demons faster," he grumbled. 

She nodded, lifting her eyes and then tilting her head to study the expression on his square-jawed, handsome face. Rage, she realized in astonishment. He was angry on her behalf, this former Templar. Reaching out across the box between them, she laid her hand over his. 

"Yes, but there was only one demon. I survived with few ill-effects and have never had cause to take lyrium again. Perhaps it was a good bargain." Meera stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, enjoying the feel of his skin against her callused fingertips. Her voice wavered when he looked down, turning his hand over to align his palm to hers, his large hand dwarfing her small one. "Cullen. You found me a bathtub. And a featherbed." 

His smile was bright as the sun, the rage slipping away into mischief as he brought their entwined hands to his lips. "Actually, I told Josephine to find them." And had been happy to provide the coin for them himself. "They meet with your approval, then?" 

She shivered as his lips ghosted over the side and back of her hand, his warm breath easing across her flesh. She started to say something highly inappropriate and hopefully flirtatious about sharing his gifts with him when the door behind them opened and Blackwall breezed in, a report clutched in his fist. 

Reluctantly, Cullen released Meera's hand, the promise in his brandy-colored eyes and half-smile leaving her breathless. Blackwall, oblivious to the undercurrents he was disturbing, slapped the parchment in his hand onto the desk triumphantly. 

"Ho, there, Inquisitor! You're lucky to have this one. He discovered where the red Templars are coming from: Therinfal Redoubt." 

As they fell into the familiar rhythm of Inquisition business, Cullen enjoyed the way Meera's eyes strayed to his occasionally, the beautiful spring green that King Alistair of Ferelden had admired so much telling him that yes, she felt lucky, indeed. 

OoO 

"Fighting a cleanse is futile. Think of yourself as a rock in the middle of a brook: let it wash around you but not through you and your magic will be less affected." When the mage nodded and started to rise, Meera was pleased she allowed the Templar who had knocked her down to help her up, that they smiled at each other. 

"Try again." 

Meera moved out of the way, leaning back against the split rail fence that surrounded the practice yard. On the other side across from her in various states of watchfulness were the small contingent of mages and Templars Cullen and she had formed into a specialty squad, complementing each other's abilities and bolstering each other's weaknesses. She was pleased to see they were doing better than when she'd left Skyhold. There were less angry glares, more a feeling of brotherhood, and their skills had definitely improved. 

Earlier in the morning, Cullen had sent her a note asking her if she would stand in for him with their training as he was busy with Scout Harding. Usually, that meant she collected Cassandra to help her. Not only was Cassandra a friend, the Seeker had extensive combat experience and Meera always enjoyed her slightly snarky, if helpful, commentary. Sometimes they even joined the drills as a team or on opposing sides. Cassandra, though, was locked in the armory, ostensibly to go over Inquisition business but in reality to sulk. 

Meera thought if anyone should be allowed a good pout, it was her. Iron Bull had managed to talk her into drinking to killing dragons on her first night back in Skyhold and she'd been sick and insensible for the whole of the next day. She'd angered everyone except Solas when she'd agreed to let Cole, the spirit who wasn't a spirit, stay with the Inquisition. Hawke had decamped from Skyhold with only a hastily scrawled note promising to meet her and the Grey Warden Stroud in Crestwood at some unspecified date in the future. And Cassandra was brooding because she'd tried to do grievous bodily harm to Varric for keeping Hawke from her and Meera had intervened to stop her. 

"Dear heart, don't scowl, your face will stick like that. What a dreadful waste of a pretty woman that would be." Dorian's voice was gently teasing, his smile causing his mustache to twitch charmingly as he leaned his elbows on the fence from behind, his chin on her shoulder. He laughed, a rich, rolling sound, when she reached back and singed an end of his mustache between her thumb and forefinger. 

"We both know you weren't staring at _my_ face," she murmured affectionately, pressing her cheek against his. She was head over heels in love with Dorian. He was darkly handsome, exotic, intelligent, magically gifted, and hid his soft heart under a veneer of arrogance. It helped, she admitted, that while he flirted outrageously with her, he preferred men and was currently happily 'riding the Bull', as he called it. He also had always simply ignored her natural reticence. How could she not love someone who so cheerfully wanted to love you back? 

The mage and Templar in the center of the ring came to a sudden halt, the mage's staff crossed with the Templar's sword, and Meera called out, "Well done! Take a break and let's have the next pair." 

This time is was the mage who let the Templar lean on her a bit as they left the field for the next combatants. Meera narrowed her eyes at the way they clung to each other. "Dorian, are they…together?" 

Dorian hmmed in the back of his throat, then nodded, tickling the side of her face with his chin. "Yes, looks like they might have finally played hide the Templar sword, or the all-female version, at least. Ah, sweet Templar and mage love. Remind you of anyone?" 

Meera felt the heat rise to her face and bumped her head against his. "Hush, you." 

"Now, now, don't fret, Mimi. Your lack of time with your own personal Templar is the reason I came down…oh, now, children, don't be imprudent!" His voice rose as he straightened, a lick of electricity arcing between the Templar and mage who were currently squared off in the ring. Both jumped back guiltily. The mage, an older woman with a scar down her cheek whom Meera suspected had been abused by Templars before the Inquisition, glared, but the Templar, a very young man with barely any peachfuzz on his face, dropped his eyes to his boots, his sword tip dragging on the ground. 

The young Templar had been obviously afraid of hurting the older woman, pulling his blows, his purges cast mostly to protect himself and not to drain the woman's mana. She, in turn, had decided his weakness should not only be exploited, it should be punished, which would have been a good lesson if she hadn't paralyzed him in a static cage and then tried to blast him with a fireball that contained the full weight of her magic behind it. 

They wanted them to train each other, not kill each other. It cemented Meera's suspicion the mage had been at the mercy of sadistic Templars. It also placed a pall over the mage's reasons for volunteering for the specialized troop. Meera made a note to speak to Cullen about her. 

Dorian vaulted the fence effortlessly and stalked gracefully into the middle of the ring. Bumping the mage back with his hip and a chiding glance, he bowed to the Templar, who blushed hotly from chin to hairline as he tried to bow back, clumsily. The mage retreated, grumbling under her breath about evil Tevinters. Meera was glad to see the other mages and Templars moved away from her with various expressions of disgust. 

"What's your name, you fine-looking morsel, you?" Dorian asked with a wicked, striking leer, reaching onto his back for his staff. 

"Quinn, your…uh…Mister…," the boy stuttered, dropping into a guard stance with a flourish and style Meera, and Dorian, found charming and unexpected. 

"Just call me Dorian. We're all friends here, yes?" Dorian gave his staff a quick, practice swing, then planted it firmly against the ground. When the boy nodded, Adam's apple bobbing with his hard swallow, Dorian's smirk widened into a flash of his perfect white teeth. "Good, because I'd hate for you to cry when I hurt you. Templar tears don't taste as delicious as they say." 

And then they were off, lightning crackling, thunder booming, and the uncomfortable scrape of Templar abilities against Meera's magical senses. The boy was more gifted with his blade, his shield, and his talents than she'd suspected given how he'd performed against the older mage. By the end of the bout, both Dorian and Quinn were panting and eyeing each other with new respect. 

"Well done!" Meera called. "Let's have the last two and then we'll call it a day." 

Quinn ambled away cockily to his teammates who greeted him like a conquering hero, even the older woman giving him an apologetic glance. Meera covered her mouth to hide her smile as Dorian staggered over to her, draping himself on her shoulder in exaggerated weariness. "That boy is a menace, Mimi," he said, loudly enough to be heard, and Quinn rewarded him with another blush and an insolent little wave. Meera patted Dorian consolingly on the shoulder. 

Once the final mage and Templar had begun their round, she turned to murmur softly in his ear, "That was kind of you, Dorian." 

"Of course it was," Dorian returned complacently. "And here is my final gift to you: come by the gazebo in the garden just after mid-day." When she raised an eyebrow at him, he tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. "You'll find something delicious. Trust me." 

OoO 

They were playing chess, Dorian and Cullen, in the garden. Meera faltered as she neared the table; she hated chess. Not only did it have too many rules that she could never seem to remember, she had no aptitude for it, and she disliked performing poorly at any task set before her. Then Cullen looked up, saw her, and half rose from the table, and Meera realized the lure of spending time with him was enough to overcome her abhorrence of chess. And Maker take Dorian, she would have to thank him later for arranging the whole thing. He'd be insufferably smug. 

"Meera!" Cullen exclaimed, again feeling as if his body was like a younger man's, all gangly limbs and awkwardness; the chess table even wobbled a little as he bumped it with his hip. 

"Leaving, are you? Does this mean I win?" Dorian asked slyly, winking at Meera, who flushed becomingly. 

Cullen sank back down into his chair thoughtfully as Meera replied, "Are you two playing nice?" 

"I'm _always_ nice," Dorian drawled and Cullen, looking between the two of them, realized that yes, Dorian had invited him to play chess because not only was he nice, he wanted to allow Cullen and Meera time together. Thoughtful, cheeky bastard. He'd have to thank him, with a note and a nice bottle of Tevinter wine. "You'll need to come to terms with my inevitable victory. You'll feel much better." 

Glancing down at the board, Cullen's lips curved triumphantly and moved his Queen. "Really? Because I just won. And I feel fine." 

"Don't get smug. There will be no living with you." Dorian's smile was wry as he rose from the table. As he passed Meera, he leaned in to brush a kiss on her cheek, his hand patting her on the bottom familiarly. She squeaked, eyes shooting wide in surprise, and Cullen snorted out a laugh. 

"Careful there, Dorian. She sets people on fire." 

The Tevinter just waggled his fingers at them over his shoulder. "Only you, Commander. Only you." 

"You're not…that didn't bother you?" Meera asked, sinking down into the chair across from Cullen without invitation. She enjoyed the way the dappled sunlight glinted off of his wheat-colored hair, how his handsome, dear face was relaxed, mouth slightly curved. He wasn't wearing his armor and she approved of the dark green linen shirt and loam colored breeches tucked into highly polished black boots. 

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair to enjoy the view. The pale, soft yellow of her tunic made her skin glow the color of ripe summer fruit, all peaches and gold, and her dark blue breeches provided a nice contrast as well as hugging her curves. She smiled at his regard shyly and he blew out a noisy, aroused breath. "Dorian is only teasing us both. It would be hard to miss the way he and Bull look at each other." 

"Ah." There was disappointment in the word and Cullen grinned, a slash of white teeth. 

"Did you hope I was jealous, Meera?" he asked, leaning across the table to brush his fingers over her cheek. 

She turned into the caress, reaching up to cup his palm in hers, holding it to her face. He felt the blush against his hand even as he tracked its progress down her lovely neck. "Perhaps a little," she admitted with a nervous chuckle. 

"I'm jealous enough that you adventure about most of Thedas without me." He flexed his hand, asking to be released. When she did, he let his fingertips trail down her neck, following the path of the blush to the neckline of her shirt, incredibly stirred when she arched her neck in response, a soft little sound escaping her lips. 

"You could come." When his eyebrows rose and his eyes darkened, she swallowed, feeling suddenly bold. "With me." 

"Sweetheart, I don't think you're talking about tours of the countryside," he murmured in a deep, throaty whisper that caused Meera's nipples to peak. Her heart fluttered at the endearment. He leaned across the table toward her, one long finger dipping into the valley between her breasts. "Meera Trevelyan, are you trying to seduce me?" 

She whimpered, lifting her hand to trail it down his arm, kneading like a kitten asking to be stroked. "I wouldn't know how," she admitted, breathless and aching. 

Something about the way she said it had him pausing, his hand slipping back up to her cheek. "You've never … been with anyone?" 

She shook her head, mutely, her eyes flitting away from his. "No. There wasn't…I'm not…no one's ever looked at me like you do." 

"Never?" he asked incredulously, his heart stumbling when she shook her head again, when her eyes slid back to his, shy and aroused and a little afraid. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to press over his lips, to trace the shape of his jaw. He nearly groaned at the soft whisper of her skin against his. 

"Cullen. I'm a mage and a Bann's daughter, and I'm…well. I remember how you looked at me, before. I know…I know what I am, cold and distant, driven. Men don't…" She paused again to just look at him, to let her fingers memorize the rough scratch of his blonde stubble, the smooth shape of his lips, the ridge of the scar that bisected the upper, the firmness of the lower. He might turn away from her now, she knew, and gathered her courage. "I didn't let myself want, before now, because the answer was always going to be no." 

This changed the shape of things for Cullen. He had assumed there had been someone in the Circle, perhaps more than one. She had an amazingly curved figure, didn't she, and those eyes, and that sweet smile? He remembered the Circle at Kinloch and how the mages were often more like bunnies, flitting from bed to bed. He'd been aware if he'd pursued Renee he would have been far from her first, and not even her first Templar, at that. And in Kirkwall, even in the Blighted Gallows, there had been experimentation, among the Templars and the mages. Some of it turned his stomach to think of, because not all of it had been consensual. He'd kept his dalliances to women who chose to say yes. Now here was Meera, a maid, younger than him, and more defenseless than even Varric suspected: a princess locked in a tower, indeed. 

Capturing the hand still exploring his face, he pressed his lips into her palm and readjusted his plan to carry her off to his bed and ravish her until they couldn't move. This mattered, _she_ mattered, and her first time should be something sweeter than a hurried coupling on a pallet under a hole in the roof. As he let his tongue tease the center of her palm and was rewarded with another little murmur of sound from Meera, he admitted to himself that he took a dark, secret pleasure in knowing she had never been with anyone else, that he would be the first to touch her, taste her, ease himself inside of her warm, wet heat. His voice dropped to a low growl as his cock throbbed in appreciation of the image. "My answer is yes, Meera." 

She could see, in his eyes, that he meant it. She saw that her confession had stirred him, not only his desire but something else, an emotion she was too afraid to name. She was shocked, then, when after another kiss to her palm, he gently set her hand back in her lap and leaned back. "The answer is yes, Meera, but not today." He indicated the board between them. "Play with me?" 

She tried not to pout, tried not let her confusion and need show. Instead, she grumbled, "I hate chess and I'm terrible at it." 

He laughed, rearranging the pieces on the board, determined to ignore his body's insistent demands. "I used to be. As a child I played with my sister and she'd get this stuck up grin whenever she won, which was _all_ the time." 

"My brothers were the same. It was disconcerting that I could do almost every lesson better than they and yet I could never beat them at chess." 

"My brother and I practiced for weeks. The look on my sister's face when I finally won…"His half-smile caused Meera's heart to flip over. "Maybe you just need more practice." 

"You have several siblings, then?" She tried not to be jealous of the affection that filled his face as he spoke of his family. She and her brothers had done nothing throughout her childhood but fight or ignore each other. Even after she'd left for the Tower, only her father had ever spoken to her and then only through his seneschal. 

"Yes, two sisters and a brother. I haven't seen them in…well. A very long time. The moved to South Reach after the Blight. You mentioned brothers?" He was surprised when she grimaced. Though he'd been remiss in keeping up with his family, he still thought of them fondly and missed them. She, however, looked like she'd eaten something sour as she spoke. 

"Yes, two older, Hayder and Wendell. We were never close." 

"Your father's doing?" he asked shrewdly. 

"Not all, but mostly. First he spoiled me and they resented it. Later, he ignored me in favor of them and I was insufferably bossy to compensate." She huffed out a laugh when he raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, I am still insufferably bossy. It's rude to point out the flaws of a lady, Commander." 

"Mmmm. So teaching you to play chess and then pointing out your lack of skill is out of the question?" he teased. 

"I would prefer to never play chess with you," she admitted. "But maybe we could go for a walk?" 

He stood, gave a little half bow at the waist, and held out his hand. "As m'lady wishes." 

Instead of taking his hand into hers, she stood and slid under his arm, her own sliding around his waist. "You tease but I am a lady and a mage. I can tell you to go to the Void and make you think you will enjoy the trip _and_ I can set you on fire." 

The feel of her slender hand toying with the waistband of his breeches was certainly causing him to feel hot, Cullen thought, as he matched his long strides to her shorter ones. As they started up the stairs to the battlements from the garden, wondering how to keep from pressing her up against the stone and plundering her mouth, he murmured absently, "I'm used to mages disliking me on principle. And I don't have a title outside of the Inquisition." 

"The only person who would care that you don't have a title is my father. I bet you can guess how I feel about that." He felt her take a breath then she peeked up at him from under her lashes, her look wary. "As much as I would like to pretend, I have never disliked you on principle. I have cared about you since the day you watched me perform the Trial." 

They both stopped, stared at each other for a moment. When he answered, his voice shook. "That long?" When she nodded, he maneuvered her back into a corner; it was going to be kissing after all, it seemed. "It seems too much to ask. But I want to…" 

Meera's hands slid up his chest, fisting in his shirt as his mouth descended toward hers. She could feel his breath teasing her lips just as someone said, "Commander? You wanted to see a copy of Sister Leliana's report?" 

"What?" Cullen growled, turning slightly toward the scout who was approaching them. Meera thought about hiding her hot face in her hands but remembered she was supposed to be the Inquisitor. She straightened, tried to school her face into its usual haughty calm. 

"Sister Leliana's report. You wanted to see it 'without delay'," the scout continued, holding it out in front of him like a shield as the Commander loomed over him, glaring, and the Inquisitor behind him looked embarrassed but also slightly upset. His eyes darted back and forth and he managed to sputter, "Or…to your office…right…" as he retreated, turning around at the last second to dart away. He had such a story to tell! 

For her part, Meera was afraid the moment had passed. Again. "If you need to…" 

The feel of Cullen's mouth on hers was everything she'd wanted and nothing like she'd expected. His hands sank into the back of her hair to hold her in place as his warm, firm mouth moved against hers, his tongue teasing until she parted her lips on a gasp, opening to him. She wasn't sure what to do with her hands or her body, yearning toward him, her belly clenching when his tongue teased the corner of her mouth. When he released her, she swayed toward him, hands once again on his chest. 

_Berries,_ he thought dazedly, still cupping the back of her head. _She really does taste like berries._ When she didn't say anything, when he realized she was trembling, he managed to utter a confused, "I'm sorry…that was…um…really nice." He chanced a glance at her face to find her lips swollen and pink, still shining from the sweep of his tongue, and her smile wide and beautiful and sweet. 

"Don't be sorry. That was wonderful." She swayed forward a little, dropping her eyes to his mouth. "You should do that again." 

"With pleasure," he murmured. He assured himself he could stop at any time, that he hadn't slipped his thigh between hers, that the little mewling pleasure sounds she was making in the back of her throat weren't causing him to roll his hips against her, that her hands weren't innocently driving him mad as they moved restlessly over his shoulders and chest and through his hair. No, he was in complete control, able to handle his own sleek rush of lust, until she nipped his lower lip with her small white teeth and then breathed his name, arching into his knee provocatively. 

"Andraste's ashes, Meera." He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as they both tried to catch their breath. "You would try the patience of the Maker himself." 

"Why be patient, Cullen?" She rocked against his knee again, enjoying how it made his big body shudder, how it pressed against the center of her pleasure, sending a wave of shuddering heat through her. She couldn't help her frustrated exclamation when he moved slightly away from her. 

His laugh was shaky but his hands were steady on her face. She caught her breath at the tenderness that turned his eyes bronze in the dimming light. "It will be worth the wait, sweetheart. I promise." 

Her pout was startling and adorable. Leaning in, he couldn't resist nipping at it with his teeth. She hmphed even as her arms slid around his neck, as she tried to sound demanding and only sounded hesitant, "Can you also promise more time together? Lots more kisses, too." 

He nuzzled his nose against hers. "You said that, my brave sweetheart. Yes, more time together, more kisses." When she pressed herself against him, when he felt her breasts plump against his chest and her fingers dance down the outside of his thigh, Cullen sent up a prayer that his determination could outweigh his hunger. 


	14. Benedictions 4.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benedictions 4.10:  
>  _Blessed are they who stand before_  
>  _The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._  
>  _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

The written word was as familiar to Meera as her own skin. It could sweep her along with romance, ground her in magical theory, convey her displeasure or her pain, and it rarely, so very rarely, let her down like people were wont to do. It was a love she shared with Cassandra, the need and joy and drama of the tale, and one she shared with Varric, his sly, agile fiction measured against her precise, spare lectures. They were products of where they came from, Meera suspected: Cassandra Pentaghast’s high romance with her dragon-slaying ancestors and royal blood, Varric Tethras’s dry wit with his lost stone sense and abiding loyalty, and Meera Trevelyan's scholarship with her cramped life and surprising faith. 

Words kept her tethered to the Inquisition when she was away from Skyhold. Reports, letters, orders, requisitions, these and more flew with the ravens between the Inquisitor and the Inquisition. It was a familiar, welcome rhythm to Meera’s life, one she remembered if not fondly at least well from the Circle. 

Once Harrowed, Meera had been assigned to the First Enchanter as a scribe and research assistant. She knew it was a favor to her father, not asked for but granted all the same. It also kept her magic caged, locked away behind her duties; the Trial of Swords continued to be her shelter from the raging storm. However, already isolated by the many constraints placed on her, both by herself and others, Meera found herself perfectly suited to her new occupation. She had nearly unrestricted access to all the books of the vast Circle library, could and was often required to attend the lectures of visiting mages, and was privy to much of the business of the Circle tower. She made a cautious alliance with the head housekeeper when placed in charge of the apothecary stores, came to know which Templars she could trust and which to avoid, and was even granted leave on occasion to take a turn in the herb garden to catalogue. 

It wasn’t an easy life, or a happy one, but Meera had been content. She was a woman of words. 

Cullen, she discovered, used words sparingly and gave of himself in other ways. 

While she tried to send him a letter every day or two she was in the field, she would often return to camp to find he’d sent her a trinket with the ravens: a bit of ribbon the color of the petals of Crystal Grace, a pretty ink bottle in chased silver, a small carving of a dragon she suspected had come from Blackwall’s knife, and books. He loved to send her books. Books on the Chantry, books on magic, even a book on the rare herbs of Ferelden and where to find them. 

Every gift, every brief note he penned to accompany them, never more than a couple of lines, made her remember the few precious days they’d spent in Skyhold before she’d been called away. He’d kept his promise. There had been time together: quiet meals for two in the gazebo, laughing games of chess where she conceded often before they’d even begun, walks along the battlements and into the mountains, a tentative second offer to teach him the magic she used in the Trial of Swords and astonishment when he not only agreed but proved an apt, able, tormenting pupil. She could hear him, murmuring in her ear, his big body wrapped around her back, both of them holding the Inquisition sword, “Wiggle again, sweetheart, and see what happens.” 

Bold words for a man with enviable, and frustrating, control. Despite her continued provocation, he’d still only kissed her. 

She’d never known there were so many ways to be kissed. Long, deep, drowning, his tongue lazy, his hands gentle. Quick, hard, almost brutal where he was nipping teeth and rough hands. Featherlight, almost chaste brushes of his mouth against hers, caging her in his arms against the battlements. 

Meera smoothed her hands over the cover of the book that had arrived with the birds, the gold leaf used in the lettering flaking away under her distracted fingertips, and yearned for Cullen’s kisses. 

“Oh, ho, Boss, another book? Whazzat, the fourth since we been out here?” 

Meera nodded absently in Bull’s general direction. He, Dorian, and Blackwall were on the edges of camp, sorting through the day's haul of gear. As she opened the book to the page marked with a slip of parchment, she reminded herself that Cullen’s gifts were sweet, wonderful gestures, and she knew better than to wish for the moon. He might change his mind any day. She should take what she was given and be grateful. 

_Page 275. The answer is still yes, sweetheart._

She had to turn the book before she realized what, exactly, the couple were doing in the illustration on page 275. “Holy Maker!” she exclaimed, her whole body flushing as she slammed the book closed. 

He’d sent her a book of naughty pictures and descriptions. 

Wicked, tormenting, gorgeous, beloved man. 

At Meera’s exclamation, Dorian nudged Bull in the side as Blackwall raised his bushy black brows. All three men leaned in as Dorian muttered, “The book is called Love in Greater Antiva.” 

“Isn’t that a sex book?” Blackwall asked in surprise. At Dorian’s nod and Bull’s snort of laughter, he felt his eyebrows climb even higher. “I know they’ve been kissing all over Skyhold but…is he…are they?” 

Dorian nodded again, grinning. “He’s serious, our handsome Commander, about our girl. Serious enough to take it slow now that he knows she’s not quite as experienced as he.” 

“Experienced? We talking about the same blushing, bashful Commander of the Inquisition?” 

Bull snorted again, lip curling. “Just because a guy is modest doesn’t mean he ain’t had some pussy.” 

“And he _was_ a Templar and she _is_ a mage. I bet he’s seen some not so nice sex things,” Dorian added. 

Blackwall turned a little to look at Meera again. She was rosy red but her lips were slightly parted as she turned the pages of the book, pausing occasionally to mutter something that might have been prayers. He frowned, reaching up to stroke his beard as he studied the Inquisitor. 

At their first meeting, she'd helped him teach some farmers how to defend themselves. Her barrier had stretched from bank to bank of the small lake where they fought; he'd been impressed despite himself. Later, though, on their trek to a nearby Inquisition camp, he'd fallen back to speak with her and been concerned to see her face was white as bone, her eyes shadowed. The more he'd watched her, the more uneasy she'd made him. Her belief in herself was nonexistent. And she had such power at her fingertips: the Mark, the Inquisition, magic. 

He knew, better than anyone, how someone like her might respond when outflanked. When he voiced his disquiet to Josephine, she'd told him what she knew about Meera's family, her time in the Circle. “That's not helping, girl,” he'd grumbled. It was a conversation with Leliana before Redcliffe that had helped Blackwall reconsider. 

_The Herald, Cullen, and Cassandra were having an argument. He wasn't sure about what and was surprised to find the pretty red-headed Spymaster sitting cross-legged on the stone wall nearby, chin on her fist, just watching. When he paused next to her, Leliana didn't bother to look in his direction._

_“They seem frustrated with her,” he ventured finally. It was true. Cassandra was taking quick, stalking steps; Cullen had his arms crossed and his sandy brows lowered. Only the Herald appeared impassive and calm, her face carefully neutral. Then he took a second, closer glance and drew in a sharp breath._

_“You see it, too,” Leliana murmured._

_In a nearly perfect circle around the Herald's boots, the snow had melted._

_“Do you think she knows?” he asked hoarsely._

_Leliana nodded, then shook her head, then she sighed. “She reminds me of Aalish.”_

_At Blackwall's blank look, Leliana elaborated, “Queen Aalish Theirin, the Hero of Ferelden.”_

_“It’s not just a story that you were with her during the Blight?” he asked incredulously, surprised by the quick, deadly smile Leliana sent him._

_“I was a Blight Companion, Blackwall.” The woman paused, something moving across her eyes that might have been loneliness as her smile died, turning back to where Cassandra suddenly laid a hand on the Herald’s shoulder and Cullen nodded, his posture relaxing. They’d capitulated, he realized, for the Herald’s small hands, fisted at her sides, slowly uncurled. “Aalish was driven, temperamental, and disconcertingly direct. I did not like her.”_

_As the group before them scattered, Leliana sighed. “Then she fell in love with Alistair and she bought me the most beautiful shoes.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, humor briefly winking at him. “She just wanted to be loved. She wanted someone to value her as her family had valued her. Alistair gave her that.”_

_“The Herald’s never had that,” he returned uneasily._

_“Yes, that is true. But she has also never had true purpose, a cause for which to fight, people who would rally behind her.” Leliana stirred, rising to her feet like a sleek cat, long and lean and deadly. “Some of us blossom only in adversity.”_

_Memory lanced through Blackwall, sudden and harsh. He put out a hand on the wall to steady himself, his eyes closing briefly. His voice was thick when he spoke, “Some of us fail and innocents suffer.”_

_When he opened his eyes, Leliana nodded, slowly. “Yes. But not our Herald. She has been touched by the Maker himself.”_

_He grunted, drew back when she turned her sharp blue gaze on his face, when he saw how her eyes shone eerily in the fading light. Her voice when she spoke was the same yet not, a hundred voices raised in the Chant,_ _“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.”_

_Days later, Meera stumbled out of Redcliffe limping, her face ashen and bloody, leaning heavily on the Tevinter, the mages she’d freed arrayed behind her. And Blackwall heard himself murmur, “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.”_

_Leliana moved up next to him. “Sometimes the light comes from the most unlikely of places.”_

Those words whispered through him again as he watched Meera, a young woman with so much sitting on her narrow shoulders, flutter over a gift from the Commander of her armies, saw how she closed the book with a snap and clutched it to her chest, her smile wide and sweet and tender. “He better deserve her.” 

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Bull clapped him on the back and Dorian said sharply, “Yes, well, something on which we can agree.” 

OoO 

“Commander.” 

Cullen waved Blackwall into his office without looking up from his desk. It was buried in reports and other paperwork, a sprawling mess that Cullen’s aching bones and knotted guts wished to the Void. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest since Meera had left Skyhold. Along with the night sweats, the vomiting, the chills and fever, he had new nightmares. 

He dreamed of being tortured, strung on the rack, magic and lyrium used like hot knives, flaying him alive. 

He dreamed of Meera trapped behind glass, sobbing, her heart broken as his mind was taken by addiction, his memories of her lost. 

He dreamed she was an abomination, her sweet voice whispering in his ear even as his sword pierced her heart, his hands stained with her blood. 

He dreamed he was a Templar again in Kirkwall or at Kinloch, remembered terror and desire and pain and ash and blood and duty. 

Some nights he was able to set aside his Fade terrors, to climb down the ladder and bury himself in his work or in Meera’s letters. Other nights, when he couldn’t untangle his feelings for her from his lust and his shame, from his craving and his fear and the past, he would stagger to the Chantry garden she’d commissioned, sink to his knees before the statue of Andraste, and pray. 

The clearing of a throat reminded Cullen he wasn’t alone. Tilting his head up, he managed a tired half-grimace for the waiting Grey Warden. He was surprised to find the older man frowning at him darkly, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Forgive me, Blackwall. You wished to speak with me?” 

“Yes. The Inquisitor ran into a spot of trouble in Crestwood. Sent me home, asked for Cassandra to head out.” Something shifted in Blackwall’s expression, a weariness. “Said to tell you a Qunari ambassador may show up, start some trouble. An elf. She said to keep him away from the Chargers when they come home.” 

Cullen felt his eyebrows rise as his stomach lurched in a way that had nothing to do with withdrawal. “Is Mee…the Inquisitor all right?” 

“She’s...” 

At Blackwall’s hesitation, Cullen grabbed the edge of his desk, panic swirling the room into streamers of color. “Blackwall,” he rapped out warningly, a low, menacing growl of sound. 

“Maker, you _are_ serious about her.” 

The change in tone and astonishment in Blackwall’s voice as well as the abrupt veer in topic had Cullen rising to his feet in a rush, reaching across the desk, and yanking Blackwell toward him by his tunic. “If Meera is hurt somewhere and you are in here testing the limits of my patience, you will be sorry.” 

“No outside injuries.” Blackwall held up his hands up, palms out, when Cullen snarled at him, his scowl severe. “She’s had a rough fortnight. The Chargers are alive because she gave up the alliance with the Qunari.” 

“She…what?” Cullen shook his head, releasing Blackwell and turning to pace away from his desk. The deal with the Qunari, he knew, was crucial. The Ben-Hassrath, the spying organization for the Qun, had reached out through Iron Bull, one of their number, to ask for help stopping a large shipment of red lyrium from being smuggled from the Storm Coast. They would provide one of their feared dreadnought ships while a small ground force covered its arrival and escape. The Venatori would be less a few men and a lot of dangerous, fatal lyrium, and the Inquisition would be the first non-Qunari organization or nation with cooperation from Seheron. 

“They were better prepared than we were,” Blackwall said finally. “We took one hill, the Chargers another. Thought that was it. ‘Vints were smarter, had mages near the waterline. It was the dreadnought or the Chargers.” When Cullen turned back to him with a wry smile, Blackwall nodded. “She’s soft, our girl.” 

_Our girl_ . The fondness in Blackwall’s voice was unmistakable as was the way he continued to watch Cullen with challenge in every line of his stance. Jealousy tried to find a place in Cullen’s heart and just had no room. She filled up all of the corners, even the dark ones. 

Maker damn him for a fool but he was in love with Meera Trevelyan, mage, Herald, Inquisitor, _his_. 

“Ask me,” he said quietly, without rancor. 

Blackwall didn’t have to. He could see it, hear it, as plain as if Cullen had stood on the ramparts and shouted. “No. Too many feelings in here. Care to go a round or two?” 

“Maker, yes.” 

After their bout, when they were both sweaty and winded, Blackwall turned to Cullen and muttered half in warning, “She loves you, too.” 

Cullen’s murmured, “I know,” sounded like a prayer. 

OoO 

Hawke shook her head. “Stop _asking_ , Mimi. And stop with the puppy dog eyes, you bitch. I am _not_ telling you where I went. Or who sent me.” When Meera’s mouth moved into the prettiest pout Delia had ever seen in her entire life and man, could Anders pout when he tried, she threw her hands up in the air. “Little girl, you are a menace.” 

Meera tried not to laugh, she really did, and when Hawke’s Grey Warden friend, Stroud, gave her a very surly look from under his equally surly bushy black eyebrows, she managed to turn the slightly hysterical giggle into a cough. When he turned away in disgust, she snagged Delia’s elbow and tugged until the taller woman leaned down. “At least he’s safe?” she whispered. Hawke’s astoundingly beautiful face was overtaken by the most beatific, pleased, frightening smile Meera had ever seen. 

“Yes. Thank you.” Hawke patted her on the head, then turned to follow Stroud out of the cold, dank, smelly smugglers’ den. “But I’m still not going to tell you.” 

“No, wait, stop. Delia.” The pleading note in Meera’s voice stopped Hawke, had her turning with a sardonic raised eyebrow that skittered into nerves when the fucking Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor of the Inquisition threw her tiny little arms around Hawke and squeezed. Hard. _Maker, is the girl using magic?_

“What the actual fucking Void, Mimi?” Hawke managed to squeak, not sure where to put her hands and was it okay that Meera’s head only came to her…best not to think about that. Cullen would kill her. With his bare hands. Anders would get a kick out of this story, though. Fantasies for _weeks_. And then she realized yes, she was dead, Cullen could run faster than she could, because Meera was _crying._ “No. No, no, no, no, _not the fuck no_. Mimi, Meera, Herald, person, girl, stop this right now. We do not have time for this kind of nugshit.” 

“I’m sorry. I am, I’m sorry, I can’t…I can’t stop crying. I’m a mess and I sent Blackwall back to Skyhold and he’s probably … probably angry with me but Cassandra’s like a Templar and all of these … these _demons_ and the mayor in this … this … _shithole_ drowned people and there was a spirit and I helped it but it told me … it told me I’m _like_ it … and no more Qunari alliance because I couldn’t let them _die_ … and I’m so afraid and I _can’t_ be afraid, there’s no _time_ …” From there quiet, competent, driven, focused, self-possessed Meera Trevelyan slid into babbling incoherency, wild sobs, and adorable hiccoughs. Delia did the only thing she could think to do: she yelled, _really loudly_ , for Cassandra. 

“What did you _do_ , Champion?” Cassandra demanded when she burst into the cave, Dorian and Iron Bull hot on her heels. Hawke threw her hands up in the air, palms out, in a gesture of peace as Meera continued to sniffle against her chest. 

“Nothing, I swear! She hugged me and then she started crying!” 

“Do not forget the crazed mumbling,” Stroud put in drily, subsiding when Bull shot him a nasty look. 

Dorian murmured soothing nonsense as he attempted to approach Meera, whose fists were clenched tight in the back of Hawke’s armor, her face splotchy and red, her nose runny. “Oh, dear heart, this is _not_ a good look for you. Come to Dorian and let me help.” 

“Home,” Meera whimpered pitifully, blinking her big, wet, guileless green eyes slowly at Dorian. She did not release Hawke from her grip. “I want to go home, Dorian. To Skyhold.” 

“Then let’s fucking do it,” Iron Bull said, moving in to scoop Meera up into his arms like she was a child. 

Hawke did not miss her curves or her arms around her. No, she did not. 

She ignored Stroud’s arch look. 

She watched with a tinge of envy as, careful of his horns, Bull placed a delicate kiss on Meera’s forehead. “Whatcha say, Boss, home for Commander cuddles?” 

Meera nodded, curling into Bull’s chest. “Cullen,” she managed, tears still making tracks down her face. “Home.” 

As Bull and Dorian moved away with Meera, Hawke turned to Cassandra and tried for nonchalance. “So, meet you at the place with the things?” 

The snort was more a laugh that crinkled the corners of Cassandra’s eyes. “Yes, Champion, we will meet you in the Western Approach. We will send Scout Harding and her people in the meantime.” 

Cassandra moved to follow the others. Hawke let her get all the way to the entrance before calling out, “Hey, Seeker, tell Varric to show you the trick with his tongue!” 

When Cassandra called back something uncomplimentary and frankly lewd and Stroud shoved her from behind with an irritated, “Move it, girly,” Hawke felt like her feet were on firmer ground. 

Until days later in the Western Approach when Scout Harding handed her a beautiful, obviously masterwork mace of obsidian, the hilt wrapped in wyvern scales, perfectly balanced for her hand, and said, “Her Worship says she’s sorry and not to kill bad guys without her. Commander Cullen says thank you, you’re a good friend.” 

The stupid Herald of Andraste and her equally nauseating Commander had a bad habit of setting Delia Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, on her ass. 

She killed a nest of varghests out of spite. And holy Maker's knickerweasels but the mace was _astounding_. 

OoO 

The sunlight made interesting patterns as it crawled its way toward the bed: first something like the symbol of the Inquisition, then the constellation Kios, then a lazy, amused male voice rumbled under her cheek, “If you squint, that one looks like Lake Calenhad. Or a bunny.” 

A kiss ghosted over the crown of Meera’s head and a large, callused hand smoothed down her back. She made a little happy noise and nuzzled the warm male throat, soothed by the steady rhythm of the heart under her hand. The silence was comfortable, her body relaxed, her eyes just starting to drift close when Cullen whispered, “Are you ready to talk about it?” 

She tried not to stiffen, tried not to pull away from him, tried to keep her breathing even and slow. She felt him brush his lips over her hair again, his patience and his regard as warm and gentle as the hands that continued to stroke and rub and comfort. 

He’d been wonderful since they’d brought her home. He’d met them at the gate, lifting her carefully from her perch in front of Bull. When she’d clutched at him, when she’d buried her face in his shoulder and asked him to please, please stay with her, she couldn’t bear anyone else, he’d whispered, “Of course, sweetheart,” and ordered everyone else out of her quarters. 

As if she were made of finest porcelain with hairline fractures, he’d acted as lady’s maid: helping her remove her travel-stained robes, encouraging her when her magic faltered while preparing a bath, taking the pins from her hair so he could gently massage her scalp under the suds, bundling her into a clean sleeping robe, drawing a comb through the snarls of the heavy waves that hung to her bottom. When he'd led her to the bed, preparing to tuck her in, she'd balked like a startled mare, shaking her head. “No. No, I need...please don't leave me alone.” 

He hadn’t questioned or demanded, hadn’t pushed or cajoled, had held her while she wept or dozed or raved, had soothed when the Fade and its terrors had nearly taken her under. He’d kept everyone away, he had stayed, and she was pathetically grateful. 

She was so afraid he was disappointed in her. She just wanted to lie here with him in her big, lake-sized bed and never think again. 

Instead, she scooted over to drape herself over his chest, propping her elbows on the pillows by his head, and made herself pull a silly, Sera-like expression. His startled chuckle was as handsome as his strong-boned, handsome face, teeth even and perfect and straight, the scar on his upper lip only making him more appealing, his curls golden in the sunlight. “You are so pretty,” she murmured, surprised when he reached up to stroke her cheekbone, when his eyes went soft and quiet. 

“As are you, Meera,” he returned, his frown quick when she shook her head. His hand slid back and grasped the back of her head, halting the negative motion. “Stop. If you wish to give me compliments, you must be willing to accept them in return.” When her mouth turned down mulishly, he leaned in and gave her a smacking kiss. “We can fight about this if you wish, sweetheart, but eventually you will have to tell me what is wrong.” Those lovely spring eyes shuttered and Cullen's heart ached. “I would let you wallow longer if I could.” 

“I know.” It was her turn to lean in and press a kiss to his lips. They lingered over the caress until they were both slightly breathless. “You've been so patient with me. I know we need to leave for the masque in Halamshiral soon.” 

“Yes. Cassandra says if she has to wear the ridiculous outfit, you do, as well.” Her sweet giggle was the best sound Cullen had heard in several days. “My brave Meera. Tell me what hurt you.” Her sigh was deep but he was glad to see some of the shadows had slipped out of her eyes. 

“Everything.” At his raised eyebrow, she jerked a shoulder. “I don't think it was just one thing. Or maybe it was too many things.” She tilted her head, let her fingers play in the back of his hair. “My life has changed so completely, Cullen. I wasn't happy before. Content, maybe, but it was my life and it was...” She floundered for a description that didn't sound self-pitying and settled for, “Adequate. It was an adequate life and all I ever thought to have.” She laughed, a sound of amazement. “My decisions in the tower seem so small now: which quill to use, how much ink to purchase, whether the Templars would allow me an extra hour after last bell in the library.” 

He winced and shifted uneasily beneath her. She seemed unaware of his discomfort, however, her voice thoughtful. “Now, when I choose, a nation turns from me because I care more about a ragged band of mercenaries than I do the offered alliance. And when the mercenary captain loses everything at my whim, is named traitor to all he has ever known, still he tells me there is no place he would rather be than by my side.” Her voice dipped, wavered, her fingers fumbling at his shoulders, her face paling, slipping into the Inquisitor's mask of stern hauteur. “A spirit of control recognizes me, says we are alike, and for the first time in my life, I am tempted by the power of the Fade. What could I do, I wonder, with so much more power at my fingertips?” 

The avarice in her eyes caused a sharp spike of cold in Cullen's belly. Suddenly, he wanted her to stop talking, wanted to go back to earlier when they saw shapes in the sunlight. Instead, she shifted and sat up, lifting her left arm, the anchor flaring to life in lurid green light. “And then it's mine, without turning a spirit into a demon. A mayor drowns his people, a rift opens in the lake he made, and when I go to close it...” She let her palm unfurl, slowly, as if releasing a breath, and around him, under him, through him, the heat and power and violence of a summer thunderstorm rushed, wild and free, health and vitality and the tang of ozone in the back of his throat, thunder rumbling in the distance, the sudden sharp clarity of the wild, dark tempest. 

He had felt Meera's healing only twice before. Once after a training incident with a mage had left him with burns on both hands, and another when he and Bull had gone a round in the ring and he'd been a moment too slow to avoid a horn to the shoulder. Both times her healing had carried the impression of a summer shower, soothing and soft. Now it was lightning and lashing branches and driving rain, the ferocity all the more startling for the absolute calm that followed. 

He swallowed, hard, and sat up. He would have sworn he saw lightning arc between the fingertips of her marked hand. “The anchor gave you a new power.” 

She nodded and such sorrow moved across her face, a plea filling up the blankness. “So many worthy people died at the Conclave, continue to die at my hand or by my command. Yet here I sit, blessed with power beyond imagining, with friendship beyond reckoning, with...” She faltered, her hand lifting toward his face only to fall away, to clench into a fist in her lap. “I have no right to be happy. None.” 

Suddenly, as sunlight spilled across the bed, setting fire to Meera's hair, gilding her skin, brushing her cheek, Cullen understood: for the Inquisitor, the world had turned to ashes so she could have a more than adequate life. 

He took the hand that had reached for him, brought it to his lips, kept his eyes steady and calm on her beloved, frightened, despairing face. “Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever. But the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world...” When she shuddered, he cupped her cheek in their joined hands and leaned in until their lips were barely touching, whispering the words against her skin. He tasted her tears, salt and faith, felt her own mouth begin to form the canticle, hesitant and slow. “And boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction.” He gathered her against his chest, kissed away her tears, felt her arms slide around his shoulders. He whispered his words between featherlight brushes of his lips to her cheek, her chin, her jaw, her forehead. “Believe that the Maker and his Bride set you on this path because they knew you needed us as much as we, and all of Thedas, would need you.” Gently he cupped her face in his hands, met her soft, spring eyes, willed her to believe. “You are forced to make hard choices, Meera. It is natural to weep over them when your heart is soft and tender.” 

The disgusted noise she made in the back of her throat sounded like Cassandra and had Cullen choking back a chuckle. “You make even my anxiety sound romantic.” 

“One day, the bards will sing of the Herald of Andraste weeping all over the Champion of Kirkwall,” he teased. And wasn't she the most beautiful miracle he'd ever seen, sitting in the sunlight, her hair flame, her face softened by love? 

Meera winced but the corner of her mouth quirked up. She traced the edge of his jaw, feeling his rough stubble against her fingertips. The world was in his eyes. It was possible, she realized, his answer was always going to be yes. And wasn't that something? “Yes but not today?” 

He kissed her, long and slow and sweet, and tucked away his own desire and need. “Yes, but not today.” When she grumbled, he squeezed her against his heart. “I have plans, Meera Trevelyan.” 

“Oh, I hope so,” she whispered against his throat. 


	15. Silence 3.6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NSFW.** If you want the non-smutty version, it's over on[ fanfiction. ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11384005/15/Dissonant-Verses)
> 
> Silence 3.6:  
>  _The Old Gods will call to you,_  
>  _From their ancient prisons they will sing._  
>  _Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_  
>  _On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_  
>  _The first of My children, lost to night._

To everyone's astonishment, but most especially to her own, the Inquisitor played the Grand Game as if she'd learned it at her mother's knee. Her proud demeanor, her calm, remote expression, and that tender, soft, faithful heart that still hoped for happy endings in the face of despair made her a formidable opponent at the palace ball in Halamshiral. Josephine and Vivienne watched, proud as any tutors could ever be, as Meera charmed the Imperial Court, pacified the head of an elven uprising, stopped an usurper to the throne, foiled a plot on her own life and another on Empress Celene's by Corypheus's agent, stole a mercenary company, and reunited the Empress with her long-lost love. In the end, when she stood next to the Empress whose throne she'd secured and the elf she'd helped raised to a Marquise, she took no personal credit. Instead, she begged them, without pride, to join the Inquisition in fighting the would-be god who threatened them all. 

To a man, the masked Orlesian court turned and bowed to the Inquisitor. 

“Now let her hand be raised, a sword to pierce the sun,” Josephine whispered, her fingers pressed to her lips, her dark eyes wide. Next to her, Leliana’s face was as calm and impassive as always, but her hand was gripping Josephine’s tightly. 

“She is a Knight-Enchanter.” Cassandra's husky voice had dipped a register, her chocolate eyes narrow but her smile genuine. 

“Indeed, my darlings,” Vivienne agreed, satisfaction in every line of her proud, slender body. 

“She is their shield. Passion and price, faith and love. Let chaos be undone.” 

Everyone turned to find Cole perched on the back of a nearby chair, the hat that normally shaded his pale, disturbing eyes missing. He smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “She is ours and she is theirs and she will be always his.” 

“Daft tit,” Sera grumbled, but she surreptitiously swiped at her eyes. 

Dorian sank gracefully into a nearby delicate Orlesian chair and wished for another glass of atrocious wine. 

No one noticed that Cullen had slipped away. 

OoO 

The girl, the fabled Herald of Andraste, leaned weakly against the balcony, closing her eyes. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her body obviously trembling, her knuckles white where she clutched desperately at the balustrade. Morrigan tried to remind herself that being irritated was counter-productive. Lady Meera Trevelyan, Inquisitor, had already been most gracious in accepting Morrigan, famed Witch of the Wilds, expert on the occult and Blight Companion, as an advisor, a gift from a grateful Empress Celene. It was no concern of Morrigan's, then, that this leashed Chantry mage lacked the sense to use her rumored legendary magical ability to at least calm herself. 

“Why do you not simply make yourself well?” she heard herself snap impatiently. 

Though Meera turned with a puzzled frown, it was a rich, amsued male voice, a Ferelden voice, that replied from behind them both, “Even the Inquisitor has a limit on miracles for one evening.” 

Morrigan raised a sardonic brow and turned. She took a step back before she thought, a name dying on her lips before it could form. No, not quite as broad in the shoulders and taller, she thought with only a slight easing of her panic, and this man's hair was wheat with little hint of brown, his eyes less changeable hazel and more steady amber. Even as she registered he wore the uniform of the Inquisition, he was moving past her, and she knew the look that passed between this man and the Inquisitor. She had seen it before, once, had used it to her advantage. Shame, hot and dark, rushed through her. 

Neither Cullen nor Meera watched her go. 

“There you are. Everyone's been looking for you.” He moved to stand next to her, mirroring her pose of leaning forward on her elbows. It was a most spectacular night garden below, the musical tinkling of fountains and the light fragrance of blooms. Despite such a treat for the senses, the look she sent him was exhausted, mouth drawn tight, eyes pinched. “Things have calmed down for the moment. Are you all right?” 

“It has been a very long night.” Even as she said it, he felt the soft benediction of her healing magic without the enhancement of the anchor, saw her trembling ease and then finally still, a more healthy bloom appearing on her cheeks. 

“For all of us,” he agreed, reaching out to stroke her shoulder. “I know it's foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.” Her hand lifted to cover his, her nod both appreciative and wry. Music spilled through the open door behind them and Cullen felt nerves as a flock of birds in his chest. 

He'd turned her down earlier, when she'd asked him to dance. He'd made some excuse about Templars never attending balls. The truth was, he knew better than to touch her as intimately as required by dancing in a crowded room full of people. His patience, and his plans, were at an end. Tonight, she would be his. A romantic dance under the stars, here on this semi-private balcony, would be a good beginning. 

“I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask.” Stepping away from her questioning look, he bowed elegantly from the waist, extending his hand, letting her see his desire, his love, his need, fill his face. “May I have this dance, my Lady?” 

With startled clarity and a low rush of heat to her belly, Meera knew Cullen was asking for something beyond a dance. She stepped forward, placed her hand in his, and said with more confidence than she felt, “Yes.” 

They slid into the movements as easy as breathing. His hand at her waist, her cheek on his chest, their palms curled together, the hard planes and angles of his soldier's body a perfect foil to her soft, rounded curves. “Cullen,” she whispered, and he felt the brush of her lips on his chest as a brand through the cloth of the dress uniform they were both wearing. In response, he pulled her closer, let her core brush against his thigh as they moved across the balcony, pressed her breasts against the solid wall of his chest. Leaning down, he investigated the curve of her ear with his lips. She rewarded him with the most delectable sound of pleasure, the tilt of her head an innocent invitation to taste the pulse he could see fluttering under her skin. 

“My beautiful girl. Do you know what I was thinking, watching you tonight?” he whispered, letting his warm breath fan out over the delicate shell of her ear, darkly pleased when she made another gasp of sound. 

“I heard you...” Her fingers dug into his hip as he closed his teeth delicately over her earlobe and tugged. Her belly clenched, a long, liquid pull of pleasure, and she lost the thread of the conversation for a moment. 

“You heard me...” he prompted, his fingertips barely brushing the top curve of her bottom. She arched closer, rubbing against him like a kitten being stroked. 

“Mmmm. You told the nobles you weren't married. Yet.” When he stilled, she tilted her head up to catch a look of mingled embarrassment, pride, and lust on his face. She let her own hand slide up and around his hip, smoothing up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. Rising on tiptoe, she tugged him down to her until she could whisper against his lips, “You _are_ taken, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford.” His eyes flared bronze, the pupils expanding, and feeling bold, she nipped his bottom lip with her strong white teeth. The growl in his throat had her nipples drawing into sharp points. “Now I wish to be.” 

Before she could blink, his mouth was on hers, one hand fisted in the back of her hair, the other arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She dimly heard hairpins scatter over the marble as his tongue swept boldly into her mouth, claiming her as his words had claimed her earlier. She shivered against him, the yearning heat in her belly spreading into her chest as the kiss deepened, as he used the hand in her hair to tilt her head for more. 

A sudden burst of applause from the ballroom had them breaking apart, both panting, cheeks flushed, her hair half-tumbling around her face, his sash dangerously askew. With a self-deprecating half-smile, Cullen offered his arm to Meera. “May I escort you to your chambers, my Lady?” He was fascinated as her aroused flush pinkened prettily. 

“There's a back way to the guest wing.” She shifted from foot to foot, adorably embarrassed and eager. “It's faster.” 

Reaching out, he drew her arm through his. “Then lead on, Inquisitor.” 

OoO 

When the door closed behind them and the bolt slid home, Cullen did not give her time to reconsider, to be afraid. Instead, his eyes on her face, he reached up and began to pull the pins from her hair, one by one, dropping them carefully into his pocket as if capturing trophies. And his voice flowed over her like warm honey, seducing her as thoroughly as his hands and lips. 

“Your hair has fascinated me from the beginning. So many pins, so very many braids and complicated twists. It tormented me, your hair, all that bound glory.” She shivered as the last pin found its way to his pocket, the heavy fall of her vanity spilled down her back, then gasped as his fingertips toyed with the ends where they lay against her hips. She arched into the touch, watched as his beautiful mouth curved into that lazy half-smile she knew so well. She reached up and ran her fingers down his chest, enjoying the feel of him, solid and real, under the cloth. 

He rewarded her movement by stepping closer, palming the sweet curve of her bottom, letting her feel how hard he was by pressing himself against her belly. The way her head fall back, baring the tempting line of her throat, had him closing his teeth over her pulse point. “I've barely touched you, Meera, and I want to be inside of you so badly I ache.” His voice roughened, deepened, as he nibbled and licked his way to her ear, grinding himself against her belly as she whimpered, her fingers moving clumsily over his back. “Do you know how much control it took, sweetheart, not to beg at your feet when you stood before me, all this rich, gleaming hair your only cover, and asked me to help you bathe?” 

When her mouth sought his blindly, he obliged her with a deep, drowning kiss, maneuvering them back toward the sprawling white and gold Orlesian bed. He wanted to take it slow, savor every touch to her skin, every sigh from her pretty mouth, but as her fingers fumbled between them, working at the clasps that kept his tunic belted, he wondered dimly if he'd waited too long to have her. Capturing her busy hands before she completely undid all his careful control but not before his belt thudded to the floor, he set her slightly away from him and tried to rein in his desire. The way she bit her lip, the way her small hands flexed in his, had him winging a prayer for patience to the Maker. 

“Cullen?” She almost winced at the thready, breathless quality of her own voice. He looked remote suddenly, as if he'd changed his mind, and the threat of rejection tried to curl shame around the pleasure and need in her belly. Then he smiled, a bright slash in his amazingly handsome face, and tugged on a lock of her hair. 

“Stop thinking so hard,” he ordered gruffly and before she could decide if he was talking to her or himself, his fingers followed the strand of auburn as it wended its way down the front of her body. His knuckles brushed teasingly over the edge of her collarbone, carefully avoiding the aching tip of her breast to trace the outer curve, then down, until both hands had cleverly undone the leather belt at her waist. When she reached down to help him, he slid his mouth over her cheekbone. 

“Uh-uh, Lady Inquisitor. Let me. The last time I did this, I had to recite the Chant in my head to keep from touching.” An expert tug and the knot of the sapphire silk sash loosed, pooling at her feet. His teasing lips brushed the curve of her jaw. “Tonight, I have permission to touch.” He flicked the button at her collar open, his tongue, that tormenting, talented tongue, laving the hollow of her throat. “To taste.” In a rush, the four remaining buttons slipped free until his hands could smooth the tunic off her arms and away. Her stays followed, loosened just enough that he could help her slip them up and off, freeing her rounded breasts to the cool air. She shivered as her nipples tightened unbearably, then again as he sank to his knees before her, his eyes reverent as they took in the generous curves of her breasts, the skin palest porcelain, crowned by pretty petal pink tips. Before she had time to feel anything but desired, he whispered, “To linger,” and his warm, wet mouth closed over her nipple, licking delicately at the captured flesh. 

She cried out, high and sharp, her fingers threading into his golden curls as the tug of his lips and sharp scrape of his teeth caused a hot needle of lust to shoot straight to her core. One of his big hands splayed over her lower back, steadying her, while the other cupped her neglected breast, testing its weight, grinding the aching tip into his palm. True to his word, he lingered, nipping and licking and stroking at the skin he'd exposed until Meera was a mass of quivering, needy nerve-endings and soft, pleading, desperate sounds. “Cullen!” she finally whimpered breathlessly. 

He released her breasts reluctantly, incredibly aroused by the uninhibited sounds she made, by how responsive she was to his lightest touch. Ignoring the insistent throbbing of his cock against his breeches and smalls, Cullen brushed his chin against Meera's belly, smiling grimly as he felt the muscles flutter and clench, felt her sway a little at the gentle abrasion of his stubble. Setting to work on the fasteners of her over the knee boots, he paused occasionally to nuzzle the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, to tease her hip with a little kiss. “Lift your leg, sweetheart,” he managed, biting back his own moan as her beautiful breasts bobbed with the movement, the tips still puckered and glistening from his attentions. Once both boots were set aside, he slid his hands around her hips and then down into the back of her leggings and smalls, relishing the feel of her soft, firm flesh under his callused hands as he pushed the last of her garments down her pretty, petite legs. Once she was bare, he took a steadying breath and leaned back on his heels to take her in. 

Cullen’s reverent, “Maker's breath,” was all Meera could have hoped for and more as she stood naked for the first time before the man she loved. His eyes were burnished copper in the flickering light, his lips parted as his gaze moved over her like his hands, exploring all of her secrets, following every womanly curve and dip and swell. When at last their eyes met, the tremble went through them both and Meera flushed a rosy, captivating pink. His long fingers traced the edge of the blush where it spread over the slope of both breasts and she yearned toward the touch, arching her back, offering herself to him. 

He rose to his feet in a rush; he wanted her on the bed, open to him, wanted to bring her pleasure again and again before taking his own. Scooping her up against him, the contrast of his fully clothed state to her nakedness its own kind of thrill, he kissed her, his tongue moving lazily over the seam of her lips, then dipping in to taste. She felt the bed as something soft against her back, hazy with want as he settled a pillow under her hips, releasing her from their kiss with a last flick of his tongue. 

“Pink and porcelain and so sweet,” he whispered, unable to stop himself from leaning forward and capturing her nipple once more, suckling her more urgently as she moved restlessly, her thighs parting and lifting toward him. He obliged her silent demand by slipping his fingers between her legs, rumbling his satisfaction against her breast when he found her wet and swollen and slick. He dipped a teasing finger into her and Meera felt her inner muscles clench, fluttering around the invasion, a wave of heat spiraling through her belly from the gentle pressure. 

“Yes,” she whimpered when his fingertips slid up and brushed over her clit, a featherlight, teasing stroke. He circled the tender nub of flesh and then again, more firmly, when she arched and shuddered. Abandoning her breasts to kiss his way down her belly, he paused to nip her inner thigh, his finger alternating between easing into her heat and gliding over the center of her pleasure. She was trembling, legs tensing, quick, needy breaths, then he cupped her bottom in his hands and took one greedy lick from the bottom of her sex to the top. The sound she made, a keening wail, had him groaning against her, which tore another breathless sound from her throat, her fingers fisting in his hair. 

Keeping her hips firmly in his hands, using his thumbs to gently spread her outer lips, Cullen nuzzled her with his mouth, then dipped his tongue delicately into her, humming in delight when he felt her slick walls attempt to pull him deeper. She squirmed and he rolled his eyes up to find her watching him, pupils blown with pleasure, delicate mouth parted. Holding her gaze, he dragged the flat of his tongue over her clit, pressing hard. “Do you like that, sweetheart?” he teased when she twisted toward his mouth. When she didn't answer, he let his breath ease out slowly over her, dropping his eyes to watch her sex pulse, flushing with blood. “So beautiful. You're so wet for me.” When she made a desperate sound and tugged on his hair impatiently, he grinned up at her. “Do you want my mouth on you, Meera?” 

“Yes,” she hissed and was rewarded for her honesty when his tongue flicked over her clit. Then again, quick little licks, until she was gasping and arching and begging, the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside of her. “So…so good, Cullen, oh Maker, yes, _please_ ,” she heard herself as if from a distance, blood pounding in her ears, she was on fire, burning and his tongue, oh Maker he had the most wicked, wonderful tongue as he swirled it again and again just there, where she ached, but she felt empty, she wanted, she needed… “Ohhhhhh!” she sobbed as he slipped two fingers inside of her and crooked them toward her belly, pressing at the perfect angle to make the tension crest and then snap, wave after wave of white hot pleasure shuddering through her, the orgasm bowing her back from the bed, grinding her into his mouth. 

Cullen didn’t, couldn’t, stop, half-mad with the gorgeous, arousing sounds he was wringing from her, her taste as heady and dangerous as any fine spirit. Needing to make her pleasure last, he reached up and pinched one of her nipples, rolling the tight peak as the fingers buried inside of her gently scissored, spreading her open as he sucked her clit into his mouth. She rewarded his efforts when she came for him again, writhing beneath his mouth, her lovely breasts heaving. Her wild flutters around his fingers made his cock pulse, nearly painfully hard, and he ground himself against the bed as he rode out the last of her ecstasy. He eased back with a last, indulgent lick when the fingers she’d twisted in his hair began pushing him gently away. Her eyes languorous and hazy with the pleasure he'd given her but still so sweetly spring blinked down at him slowly as he leaned his cheek on her thigh and captured one of her hands, bringing her fingers to his lips. 

Meera refused to be embarrassed despite how she must look, hair tangled, skin flushed and dewy, her thighs still parted for him. She stroked her fingers over his beautiful mouth, still glistening with her juices, and heard her breath hitch when he nipped lightly at her fingers. “Cullen,” she whispered hoarsely, arching as he touched the tip of his tongue to her palm. “Cullen, I want to see you.” The low sound he made in the back of his throat at her request had her hips jerking in his hands, her thighs trying to squeeze together as her core pulsed, a luscious and surprising resurgence of her own desire. She tugged lightly on the hand he was still holding and had to bite back a little moan as he slid up her body, pausing to nibble at her neck. As gooseflesh rushed over her skin her fingers, clumsy but sure, managed the knot of his sash and in quick succession the four buttons down the front of his tunic. He shrugged out of it impatiently but when he would have returned to kissing her neck, she turned and slid a leg over his hip. She pressed him over onto his back, licking a path under his jaw. She nearly purred when his Adam’s apple bobbled against her lips and his big, powerful body shuddered. 

Pleased with his reaction, Meera nuzzled the soft skin under his ear with her nose. He made a low sound that might have been her name as she leaned back a little on her knees, her eyes moving over him in fascination. Cullen was built like the warrior he was: broad of shoulder, lean of hip, his arms and chest roped with muscle, traced by scars, and lightly dusted with hair a shade or two darker than his tousled curls. Reaching out, she set about exploring him as he had explored her, fingers and lips tracing the ridged line of a scar up his ribcage, lapping over the dip at his collarbone, nipping along another silvery thin scar she found on his bicep. His muscles bunched and jumped beneath her hands, his breathing stuttering every time she found a particularly sensitive spot, and he watched her with eyes that burned gold. It wasn’t until she began following the trail of hair that arrowed down into his breeches that he reversed their positions abruptly, settling himself between her legs. 

“Next time, sweetheart.” He ghosted a shaky kiss along her temple when she frowned in disappointment. “My control is…Meera!” Cullen arched involuntarily, grinding back against the hips she’d lifted into his, against the feel of her, the two thin barriers of cloth between them no match for how wet and lush she was. She made another of those sounds of humming pleasure, curling her legs around his lower back and rolling her hips in a slow circle. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder and tried to take a deep breath, tried to gather up the tattered shreds of his control but all he could smell was her skin and her hair, all he could feel was her impatient hands on his back, her legs around his waist, her mouth turning to catch his, tasting herself on his lips, and Cullen decided his control could go the Maker: he had to be inside her, now. 

She started to protest when he rolled away from her until she realized he had risen to remove the rest of his clothes. Ignoring her nerves and wanting to see, she turned just as he straightened but was denied anything but a passing glance as he moved back onto the bed. His hands on her weren’t quite as steady or as gentle as before as he rearranged the pillow beneath her hips, as he pressed her knees up and apart and moved between them. When she would have wrapped her legs around him again, he shook his head at her, his eyes hot and intense, his voice hoarse but so tender. “Let me have you, Meera.” 

When she whispered, “Yes,” and her hands smoothed down his chest, eyes wide and so trusting, Cullen took himself in hand and slowly, so tortuously slowly, eased the swollen, weeping head of his cock into her inviting heat. They both gasped, her eyes flying wide even as his narrowed. He didn't want to hurt her but she was still so tight despite the pleasure he'd given her. He felt her tense, felt her body try to resist his invasion, and he shook his head again at her, tried to find words. When he couldn’t, overwhelmed by the feel of her, even more slick and soft and warm than he’d dreamed, he leaned down and dragged the flat of his tongue across one of her nipples. She immediately arched, taking him deeper, and when he suckled her, laving the tender flesh, he felt her inner muscles relax just enough that he slid home in a long, smooth thrust. 

Cullen lifted his head, dropped it back, tried to breathe. She felt incredible. Tight, wet, hot, her little panting breaths as she struggled to adjust to him causing little ripples along his cock. He closed his eyes, rolled his hips in a slow circle. When she cried out, her short nails biting into his arms, he froze. “Am I hurting you?” he managed, gritting his teeth as he felt her shift beneath him, every instinct screaming to shove himself again and again into her, to take her, to mark her as his. He had to remind himself she was a maid, that this was new to her, that he had to be patient with her, despite what he wanted, what he _needed_... 

She curled her legs high around his back, and her slick, lush walls clamped down on him like a vise as she touched the tip of her tongue to the scar that bisected his upper lip. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, his hips stuttering against her. He felt her fingers, her soft, delicate fingers, dance up his back, tangle in the hair at the back of his head. “Cullen,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over his mouth, fire and life and holy Maker, “Cullen, I love you.” 

_Her._ He wanted her, all of her, everything she had to give, and then he wanted _more_. And her eyes, those dreamy spring eyes, said she wanted as much, needed as much, him, all for him. His. She was his, his as she had never, would never, could never, be anyone else’s. And as he lifted his hips until only the hard, aching tip of his cock was still buried inside of her, he growled, “Mine, Meera. You’re mine, always mine, only mine,” and then shoved himself back inside of her, hard. And then again, and again, each time a little faster, a little deeper, his hands rough and unsteady on her hips, on her thighs, on her breasts, chanting his possession against her skin as he nuzzled her neck, as he licked her nipples and her shoulders and her ear, as they kissed, desperate, tongues and teeth and panting breaths. She met him, his beautiful, proud, charmed Inquisitor, thrust for thrust, her hands on his back, on his shoulders, stroking his chest, her own pleas wordless and frantic, her legs falling from around him, feet flat on the bed for more leverage, her creamy, sleek sheathe pulsing around him with every lunge. 

Close, he was so close, but he needed her to come for him, one more time, wanted to feel her flutter and clench around his cock instead of his fingers this time, wanted to see her face when she did. 

“Touch yourself, sweetheart,” he demanded, grabbing her hand when she hesitated and sliding it between them. They both looked down as their fingers brushed against their joining, both of them fascinated as he thrust forward, his long, thick length disappearing into the moist thatch of auburn curls between her thighs. He shuddered, teetering on the edge, desperate, the tension coiling low in his belly, tighter and tighter. She made a strange, strangled noise and, impatient, he pressed her fingers to her clit, rolled them over and around the sensitive, swollen bud, releasing her hand only when he was sure she wouldn’t stop, both of them still watching where he pounded in and out of her. 

Maker. Maker, he was…they were really…he was _inside_ of her, she was so full of him, stretched, she could see him there between her legs, hard and hot, glistening with her wetness, and oh Maker, oh, his _voice_ , the command as he told her to…to touch herself, and he was so deep, buried to the hilt, she was so close, so…and then she felt him swell impossibly wide, her gaze jerking up to his face as he snarled, “Now, Meera, now, come for me!” 

She was the most stunning thing he’d ever seen as she obeyed, sobbing his name, her lush walls clamping down impossibly, almost painfully tight around him, her fingers still between them, her eyes so very wide and he was drowning, drowning in her, lost, hers, only hers. With a harsh, stuttering groan, Cullen shoved himself as far inside of her as he could, spilling his seed into her fluttering, welcoming depths, insensible to anything but their mutual surrender. 

For long moments the only sounds in the room save the crackling of the fire were their panting breaths and the soft rustle of sheets as he sank down against her, barely remembering to keep most of his weight on his elbows. As the world slowly came back into focus, he realized with a quick flicker of shame and worry that she was trembling beneath him. He started to move away only to have her wrap her legs and arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder. “Meera? Sweetheart, did I hurt you?” he managed to croak, cradling the back of her head. 

“No! No, you … no.” She lifted her head to try smiling for him, realized it was weak and tremulous when his sandy brows lowered. “I’m a little…I can’t…that…” She blew out a frustrated breath and had to laugh at how ridiculous she sounded. “It was wonderful, Cullen.” He relaxed against her, brushing a tender kiss over her lips, and she cuddled close, exhausted and replete. 

Just as she had started to drift to sleep, he kissed her again, nuzzling his nose against her cheek before slipping with care from her embrace and her body. She blinked sleepily, already missing him as she tracked him across the room to the wash basin and pitcher. When he came back, he was carrying a wet cloth. 

“Can you warm it a little?” he asked, the bed sinking down with his weight as he sat next to her. She focused a little of her magic until he nodded. “Warm enough.” Gently, so very gently, he parted her thighs and pressed the warm cloth over her sex, wincing a little when it came away smeared with her maiden’s blood. There had been some on him, as well, and he wondered if she was lying to spare him when she told him there had been no pain. He'd never been anyone's first lover, not even the fellow Templar recruit who had been his, and the thought of causing Meera pain left him feeling sick to his stomach. 

She caught the way he was looking at her, such a very Cullen expression of mingled concern and guilt, and brushed a hand over his back, rolling toward him onto her side. “It stung a little, at the beginning, but it never truly hurt.” He frowned suddenly and fiercely, looking slightly beyond her. She followed his glance and muffled a sigh: several larger drops of blood stained the bedclothes where she’d been lying. “Cullen…” 

“I believe you, Meera,” he said, raising a hand to forestall another denial. Whether he believed her or not, the cloth in his hand and the sheets beneath her told the sordid tale of what they'd done. He had to think about her reputation as the Inquisitor and to be the Commander he was. “The sheet, though, is a problem.” 

“It’s just a little blood and this is Orlais. I imagine they have seen worse,” she managed over a yawn, cuddling down into the blankets with a little shrug. The events of the long day were catching up with her and all she wanted was for him to hold her while they slept, to bask a little in their new intimacy. Instead, he transferred his frown to her. 

“We have to dispose of the evidence.” When she pouted, he pinched the bridge of his nose and said warningly, “Inquisitor.” 

Something about his wording bothered her but she was tired and starting to grow a little muzzy and she didn't want to argue with him, not now, after he'd loved her. She moved grumpily to the edge of the bed and started tugging on the sheet. He helped her remove it, handing her the cloth he'd used to clean her, as well. She stood in the middle of the room, away from most of the furniture, lifted the hand marked with the anchor and opened a very small rift, using it to disintegrate the truth of their tryst. When she tried to close it, though, she swayed on her feet, the weariness she’d pushed back earlier on the balcony returning with a vengeance. The rift wobbled, tried to spread, and only Cullen’s sharp exclamation and his hand on her shoulder brought her back to her senses in time to force it closed. 

“Bed,” he told her firmly. She didn’t protest as he bundled her into a nightdress and then tucked her tenderly under the decadent coverlet. Curling onto her side, her hands under her cheek, she watched him move around the room, collecting his things, pulling back on his smalls and breeches. It was only when he moved to the door that she made a small noise of discontent. He paused with his hand on the latch, his back straight and stiff. He didn’t turn to look at her. She would remember that later, that he didn’t even bother to meet her questioning gaze when he left her alone in the bed where she’d surrendered to him so completely. 

He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her, tumbled and beautiful, petite and curvy and everything, his Inquisitor, his lover, and still do what he knew had to be done. Duty was cold and bitter ashes on his tongue, but he tried to keep his voice even. “You need to rest, Meera. I will see you in the morning.” 

She would remember later, too, with a growing sense of dread, that he did not respond when she murmured over a yawn, “I love you, Cullen.” 

The door clicked closed behind him. He stood for a long time on the other side, his head bowed, his palm pressed to the wood, and the words locked in his heart. 

OoO 

_He knew he dreamed. He always knew. Knowing made the Fade terrors more disturbing, somehow, as if the demons that stalked him grew tiresome of his insistence that they weren't real, not really here, not happening, if I just pray and wish and hope, they won't be here, I am stronger than this, better than this, she cannot love me if I am this._

_And yet he was less than nothing when they came for him, a man stripped of honor and courage, blasphemy and heresy made flesh._

_She knelt in the Chantry garden before her Mother, soft and giving and pure, a shining beacon of faith, their Herald, moonlight turning her bright auburn hair to winter white. “Pray with me,” she entreated and he became a supplicant, prostrated at her feet._

_He said the words by rote though he knew, he knew, and in the knowing despaired, that it was not canonical, had been stricken, removed, devoured. “The Old Gods will call to you, from their ancient prisons they will sing.”_

_No, no, it was the lyrium that sang to him, terrible, beautiful, dissonant song, a humming in his blood, a power in his veins, sweeping away his lies and his deceit and his hope and his love, a vessel of the Maker's will made flesh, sinew and bone and sword, ready to strike, kill, maim, end, mages not to be trusted, can't be trusted. Her voice a clever tongue over his skin, under his skin, in his skin._

“ _Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts, on blackened wings does deceit take flight. The first of My children, lost to night.”_

_No, no, he would not, could not look at her. She was not here, he was not here, this was not happening, there was no word for heaven or for earth, for sea or for sky._

_He looked, weak and worthless and unholy._

_She was flame given form, leather and scales and hot, searing breath, and he had never been alive until he looked into those eyes, razor sharp and agony, slow and deep and forever. Her power, the anchor, the mark, the burning, scraped across his Templar senses, called to him, whispered to him, gibbered of panic and threat and succor._

_He wanted to scour his meat from his bones. He wanted to rend and tear and claw and beg until his world, her world, their world ran red, an ocean of corpses. She would be pleased, then._

_She would be pleased and she would let him love her and his love would mean something, be justified and perfect and pure, not this pale promise of fucking and living and dying and children, worthless squirming demanding things with eyes like green glass or amber stones, blonde curls or waves and waves of autumn leaves, left to rot, poison fruit from a poison vine, withering._

_Nothing, he is nothing, worthless and spent and addled by too many years of sharp tang buzz of lyrium, a not-Templar ruled by a mage and his cock, a Maferath to sully the hem of her robes, pieces and pain and death._

“ _Would you cut me down if I were an abomination?” she purred, and in her voice he heard the echo of the glory to be had between her legs. “Could you?”_

_He cannot answer, any answer he can give will be false and sullied, it is not real, he is not here, she is not here, Maker hear my cry, judge me worthy._

“ _What, I wonder, would the Inquisition do without its Inquisitor?”_

_The sword in his hand, in his grip, balanced and sharp and fatal, and he shoved the blade into her heart and twisted. She laughed and she laughed and he sobbed, he cried and he is no longer a man but a monster with his cock buried in her and she is nothing but the Herald, the pale winter moon turning the crimson droplets of her blood to colorless rust._

_He knew he dreamed._

_There was no comfort to be had in the knowing._

OoO 

“Darling, you look so tired. Did you not rest well after your smashing debut?” 

Meera blinked at Vivienne owlishly as the First Enchanter cantered up to her, looking regal and aloof and gorgeous atop the snow white Imperial Warmblood she’d dubbed Lady. The mare nickered at Shartan, who fell into step easily and with his usual good grace. “I slept well, just perhaps too deeply. I am still waking, I think.” 

It wasn't quite a lie. Once the door had closed behind Cullen, Meera had slept deeply but not quite comfortably. The Fade had been perilous, dense and hard to breathe, and when she'd woken, she'd felt achy and bruised and, somehow, abandoned. Now, the sun was bright but chilly, and she had no patience for empty courtesy on their long trek to Skyhold. 

Her gaze, fretful and tense, darted toward Cullen where he sat tall on his mount near the front of the column. He had been all cool, stilted courtesy, the distant, controlled Commander of the Inquisition, when she'd come to the courtyard at late morning. The dread in her stomach churned like acid. 

Seeing where the girl's gaze had landed, Vivienne’s face softened and she maneuvered her horse as close as possible to Meera, ignoring the warning snort Shartan gave. She lowered her voice, careful of the column of people ahead and behind and around them. “My dear, you do know how to brew the potion?” 

It took a moment but Meera finally realized what, exactly, Vivienne was speaking of. She refused to blush. “I have been taking the herbs since they sent me to the Circle. You know they are given to all of the female apprentices.” At the arched brow and gently chiding look, Meera scrubbed her eyes with her fingers and tried not to scream. “Yes. Yes, I know how to brew the potion to stop a babe.” 

Motherly concern was a new and unwelcome feeling for Vivienne. She had been in love, and lovers, with the same man for decades. He had a wife that was not her, children that were not hers, and she had been happy with the life she led, power and control and respect. As she watched the Inquisitor sit straight in her saddle and attempt to appear untouched by the thought of a life growing under her heart she would not have taken from her, Vivienne wondered if maybe, freedom from the Circles offered something more than she'd ever considered. Fiona's endless lectures on mage freedoms were starting to influence her. How droll. 

Before she could check the impulse, she reached out and grasped Shartan's reins, pulling him and Lady to a halt. Meera's glance was calm, an auburn brow raised, but she jerked when Vivienne's strong hand covered her own, the contrast between their skin stark, dark and light, and somehow more lovely for it. 

“Meera, I know you are aware of your duty.” When the girl stiffened, Vivienne smiled and for once did not attempt to wield it like a weapon. She patted Meera's chilled hand and refused to acknowledge the look of frank disbelief she was receiving. “All I ask is that you be careful.” 

“Shall I be careful before or after I attempt to learn to wield a sword made from the Fade?” It was a distraction technique and one Vivienne accepted with grace but an arch look. Meera tried not to hunch her shoulders. Or stick out her tongue. 

“Lady Montilyet tells me she has found someone to train you. They await us at Skyhold.” Vivienne's sniff easily conveyed her dismissal of this other Knight Enchanter. The specialization was not common, of course, and Lady Montilyet's connections and taste impeccable, but Vivienne admitted she was disgruntled she hadn't been consulted. 

Diverted, Meera cocked her head. “Why someone else? I know and trust you. That seems a better plan than bringing in a stranger.” 

Vivienne preened like a beautiful bird and it occurred to Meera that their positions had somehow reversed and she couldn't pinpoint when. Upon first introduction to the legendary Madame de Fer, Meera had been reminded of all that she had hated about the Circles: the politics, the coteries, the undercurrents and intrigues and endless, painful snubs because while she could unravel and twist the players to her purpose, she was neither truly a member of the Circle nor truly outside of it. Before she could think better of it and intensely curious, she blurted, “Do you honestly miss the Circle?” 

Normally, Vivienne would have dismissed the question out of hand, especially from another mage, or provided her typical lecture on protecting mages from both themselves and mundanes. However, she could not disregard her earlier thought about the opportunities freedom from the Circle would present: marriage, family, children, acknowledged love. Fiona's influence, no doubt, and the Inquisitor's. She would never admit it might be Dorian's, as well. Smug Tevinter bastard. “Months ago, when you stepped into Bastien's salon, I would have told you the Circle was all that stood between us and a populace that hates and fears us. While I will never condone the war between Templars and mages, I can admit that my feelings have...” She paused delicately, for effect, and was so very proud when she saw Meera acknowledge the dramatics, “shifted.” 

There was nothing more to be said, Meera realized, more than content with the honesty and affection in Vivienne's eyes. She was pleased when Vivienne said with her usual impeccable grace, “When we return to Skyhold, my dear, I have a favor to ask.” 

“Of course you do.” The Inquisitor's voice was dry as dust. 

Vivienne tried for affronted and managed only another haughty sniff. “Impertinent child.” Between only they two, Meera felt the squeeze of Vivienne's smooth, graceful, teakwood fingers on her own smaller ones as of ice thawing in the warmth and light of spring. 

Meera's laughter, bright and hot and vivid, had several of the Inquisition turning to look, then hiding smiles, as their Inquisitor honored the intimidating Iron Lady with one of those regal, noble, to-the-Void nods she delivered so well. 

Cassandra noted, with a sharp spike of alarm, that Cullen spurred his horse forward, away from the sound, his face the bitter, tormented mask of the Templar she'd rescued from Kirkwall. 


	16. Transfigurations 12.6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transfigurations 12.6:  
>  _For You are the fire at the heart of the world_  
>  _And comfort is only Yours to give._

“Dorian, be serious for a moment! I cannot have my Spymaster or my friend hauled away to Orlais to be paraded about as candidates for the Divine. I need them here. With me!” 

Dorian steepled his fingers, tempted to tumble adorable little Mimi right into his lap and cuddle her until she stopped wearing a hole in the carpet of her quarters. It was a nice carpet; he rather liked it. As he rather liked Meera more, however, he reached out and tugged until she did land in his lap. She immediately shoved her head under his chin and started toying with one of the buckles on his rakishly handsome armor, grumbling under her breath. 

Dorian leaned back into her couch and kicked his feet out, letting her grouse, only half-listening. They had been enjoying breakfast together until he'd asked, laconically, why Mother Giselle was in such a dither. He hadn't expected her to jump up from the table and start ranting about Leliana and Cassandra as candidates for the Divine. 

He considered offering his opinion and decided he didn’t _have_ an opinion. Both women were qualified in their own way, he supposed, and what did he know, the Black Divine at home in Tevinter was a man. Mimi, he knew, just liked to talk through problems when they arose. Why she wasn’t talking to Cullen, though, was a mystery he planned to solve. Couldn’t come right out and ask, though. How provincial. 

“Mother Giselle would be positively scandalized if she saw us, dear heart.” 

The poke to his side was enhanced by a little spark of magic. He flinched for effect and enjoyed Meera’s affectionate squeeze. 

He’d always wanted a sister. 

“She means well.” 

“Yes, the road to the Blight is positively paved with good intentions. Witness how she handled the House of Pavus debacle.” 

“At least your father wanted to make amends.” 

“Yes, well, we saw how that went. ‘Here, Dorian, I love you, even if I can never understand you or let you _be_ you.’ And if you insist we compare our awful fathers, I’m going to insist we start drinking.” 

Meera peeked up at him. “I have a case of Rowan’s Rose that the King of Ferelden sent me, with his compliments.” 

Dorian’s eyebrows arched. Wine at breakfast. This was serious indeed. “What is it with you and tall, muscular, delicious blonde Templars?” 

Meera’s mouth thinned. Ah ha, now they were getting somewhere. “King Alistair’s hair is brown. Ish. He was bribing me to help him with Orlais.” 

“Staring at his hair, were you?” He used an ironically arched brow to devastating effect.  


“Some of us are ladies.” She said it so primly that Dorian couldn’t help the burst of laughter. Or the pinch. Because _really_. 

“I am a man, Mimi, who appreciates the male form in all its glories. And King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden is definitely glorious.” Dorian was a happy man in a relatively healthy if hedonistic relationship with Bull but he could certainly appreciate the King's excellent backside. 

She hmmed a little, then she sighed. When she spoke, her voice was tiny. “I don’t know what I did wrong.” 

“Who says you did anything wrong?” he asked loyally, tugging lightly at her earlobe. 

She shrugged one shoulder and looked miserable. His poor girl. That stupid, bullheaded Commander. “He won’t see me. He leaves rooms when I walk into them. He claimed troop exercises kept him from the Council meeting. He manages not to be in his office or in the training yard or…” 

“Dear heart, I’m going to go out on a limb and infer you had sex with our lovely Commander in Orlais.” To his surprise, she didn’t blush. In fact, her mouth turned down so alarmingly, he was afraid she was going to start crying. “No tears! Stop that right now, Meera Trevelyan.” 

She sniffed and glared. “Yes. Yes, we had…we…yes.” 

“Was it that bad?” he asked, honestly curious and not teasing quite as much as one might suspect. When she hunched down and jerked a shoulder, he felt his eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “That bad, then.” 

“I didn’t think so,” she muttered, and dropped her forehead to the couch over his shoulder. Her words were muffled into the fabric. “I thought it was perfect. Then he seemed upset because there was blood. And he wouldn’t stay with me, and I was so tired, it had been such a long day, and I didn’t think too hard about it but he just left even…” Her breath hitched and then steadied. “Even after I told him I loved him.” 

“There was blood? How kinky. I didn’t know you had it in you. Or, wait, I guess you _did_ have it…” Her hands over his mouth stopped the terrible joke but not his smirk. He licked her palm and was rewarded when she huffed and rolled her eyes at him. 

“Dorian! I’ll go talk to Varric, instead, if you keep being an ass.” He threw his hands up in surrender and she relented, sliding off of his lap to curl up in the opposite corner of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “There was blood because it was my first time.” 

“Ah, I see.” And he did, rather a lot more than the lovely, innocent Inquisitor. Honor, duty, and love were rarely good bedfellows. “So the blood made him feel Chantry guilt, he left because he wanted to protect your reputation, and he’s avoiding you now because he loves you, too. There, all fixed.” 

She frowned in puzzlement and plucked at a corner of the throw under her knees. “He’s avoiding me because he loves me? Really, Dorian.” 

Oh, she wanted it to be true. She needed it to be true more than she wanted to breathe, more than she wanted Leliana on the Sunburst Throne with her talk of true change in the Chantry, more than she wanted Cassandra to rebuild the Seekers into something noble, more than she wanted to slap the Queen of Ferelden for leaving her handsome husband who missed her very, very much. “I am a stupid, romantic, foolish little girl,” she muttered. 

“What I want to know is why you aren’t an angry, vengeful, screaming Inquisitor in the face of your studly and stupid Commander?” At Meera’s blank look, Dorian shook his head and tsked. “He’s been noble about you for quite some time. It looks good on him, the sweet stolen glances, the steamy kisses, the gifts, the stalwart protector and the itty bitty mage. Except now he’s had you and discovered it’s all real, you’re real, and he’s scared to screw it up. Since he’s doing that right now, why aren’t you yelling at him instead of moping around in here with me?” 

When she sent him a look of mingled frustration and despondency, Dorian rolled his eyes. “Meera, for fuck’s sake. Are you the Inquisitor or not? Don’t let him avoid you; make him tell you to your face if he’s changed his mind.” Dorian paused, shrugged. “He hasn’t, but just in case.” 

She opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Then her eyes narrowed, took on some of the fire Dorian saw when they engaged an enemy. One more push should do it. “You can be a romantic, foolish woman, Meera, and still not take no for an answer.” 

_The answer is still yes, sweetheart._

“Why, that bastard,” she whispered, her mouth firming. Dorian clapped, delighted, when she sprang to her feet and started toward the door. When it slammed behind her, he laughed like a loon. 

And then went in search of her case of Rowan’s Rose. She was so terrible at hiding things, after all. 

OoO 

“You have got to be joking.” She knew he wasn't. She wanted him to be. Maker take him, but she wanted him to be making a cruel jape at both her and Meera's expense. After everything the Inquisitor had done for Cassandra: finding the missing Seekers, clearing out dangerous apostates, not teasing her about her crush on the author of _Swords and Shields,_ asking if she truly wished to be Divine, and just being a true friend, Cassandra’s romantic heart had been so hopeful to see Cullen and Meera growing closer. She and Meera had even shared a good bottle of wine and giggled like girls over the two bloody-minded, infuriating, gorgeous men they adored. It had been foolish and amusing and later, tipsy and bold with it, Cassandra had propositioned Varric. 

When he’d told her about his not-quite-love Bianca and she’d kissed him anyway, she wasn’t sure if he was more amused, confounded, or aroused. Either way, thanks to Meera, Cassandra had a promise of, “Let me take care of things, Seeker, then we’ll see.” 

Too, she wanted Cullen to be happy. He had been so weary in Kirkwall, a good man surrounded by corruption, a man whose faith in the Maker was bent but not broken, and someone who needed hope as much as he needed purpose. She knew the Inquisition gave him purpose; she’d thought Meera was giving him hope. 

Cassandra knew the lyrium withdrawals were bad. There were days he was recalcitrant and moody, days she could see the pain etching lines into his face, days the dark circles under his eyes were more like bruises. Sometimes he forgot things and on those days, she knew she could find him taking out his aggression and fear in the practice yard. He didn’t speak of the whole of it and she didn’t ask. But Meera, and his feelings for Meera, were helping, whether he knew it or not. The good days were outnumbering the bad. 

Or had been, she amended, watching him pace back and forth before the fireplace of the armory like a caged animal, until Halamshiral. Whatever had happened at the close of the ball had left Meera withdrawn and brittle, Cullen angry and brooding, and the Inquisition gossiping about them. And now he wanted to be released from his duties as Commander. He had promised to stay, to join the rank and file, but he wanted no more responsibility than his tent, his armor, and his sword and shield. 

“The lyrium is going to kill me, Cassandra. I cannot put us at risk due to my own selfish wishes!” The snarl on his face was meant to intimidate. It just made Cassandra want to shake him like she’d once shaken her brother, to hear his teeth clack together until he stopped being a fool. Instead, she let her frustration snap into her voice. 

“You are not a danger to anyone!” 

He grunted and shook his head. “I cannot properly serve as a Templar any longer, Cassandra. The abilities slip through my fingers.” 

“We have plenty of Templars, Cullen, and the small mixed phalanx of Templars and mages you and Meera created continue to recruit. At your order, if you remember.” Cassandra noted the way he flinched at Meera’s name, a flicker of yearning that was quickly suppressed. 

“I am not fit for command, Cassandra. There are…” He hesitated, blew a breath out his nose, rubbed the back of his neck. He did not look at her. “The Fade terrors have worsened.” 

Cassandra felt her eyebrows rise and reached out to touch his shoulder before she thought better of it. Instead, she fisted her hand at her side. “What happened at the ball?” His face contorted, grief and rage; he looked broken, somehow, as if someone had offered him the moon and then snatched it away. She pressed her advantage. “If something has happened between you and Meera, I am sure it can be repaired.” When he said nothing, she tried again. “You must know she loves you.” 

The sound he made was shattered, somewhere between a roar and a scream, all the more disturbing in that he never moved, simply stood rigid and tense, his handsome face bleak. When he began to speak, his voice was without inflection. “I dream I kill her, Cassandra. Night after wretched night, my hand at her throat, my sword in her belly, blood on my hands, blood in our bed. Sometimes she’s an abomination but...” He shook his head, clenched his fists. “Not always.” 

Cassandra knew some of what had happened to Cullen at Kinloch. She knew, and shared, some of Cullen’s biases regarding mages and magic, even tempered as they had been by experience both with Meera herself and the mages under Fiona. But…’in their bed’? “She’s a mage, Cullen. That can’t be surprising. You and I have both seen…” 

He slashed his hand through the air, cutting her off. His voice did not lose its flat, matter of fact quality. “No. No, you don’t understand.” Cullen’s eyes were eerie, as expressionless as his voice, when he lifted them to Cassandra’s. “I take pleasure in it.” 

He expected her to turn away from him in horror; it was certainly deserved. He was disgusted with himself. Disgusted and heartsick and oh Maker he missed Meera. He missed her laugh, he missed her smile, he missed the way she listened so seriously, considered things so carefully. 

The way she had felt beneath him, around him, writhing with pleasure, calling out his name. 

It had only been a sennight and he thought if he didn’t hold her or kiss her or touch her soon, he might go completely mad. As mad as it would be to continue to deny his lyrium addiction wasn’t affecting him. Or as mad as pretending his feelings for Meera weren’t dangerous to them both and a detriment in the war they were fighting on too many fronts. 

Cassandra tilted her head and raised a slim black brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “You asked my opinion, and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?” 

“I expect you to keep your word,” he rapped out, frustrated and weary and over. He wanted it to be over. “It’s relentless. I can’t…” 

“You give yourself too little credit,” she returned without rancor, but he could see the concern in her eyes. 

“If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this.” He’d wanted to be a better man for the Inquisition, for himself. He needed to be a better man for Meera. Instead, he was broken, faith and heart and resolve. “Would you rather save face than admit…” 

They both turned as the door creaked open. Standing at the threshold, her face in shadow, the sun at her back, stood Meera. 

It was too much. Cullen brushed past her, one quick, anguished glance, and murmured, “Forgive me.” 

Because Maker knew he was never going to forgive himself. 

OoO 

Meera was grateful when Cassandra explained why she and Cullen had been speaking. Grateful and frustrated and unhappy. “Why didn’t he come to me?” 

“He sees you as something to be cherished. To be protected.” 

“Protected from what? I'm the one on the front lines, Cass. I have to be.” 

Cassandra shook her head. “No, he recognizes that. I believe he is even drawn to it. No, this is complicated because you are a mage.” 

“I thought we’d gotten past that,” Meera grumbled, sinking down against the edge of a nearby table. Some of her righteous fury was bleeding away. The look on Cullen's face had been devastation. What was she supposed to do with that, when it tied her up in knots? 

Cassandra sighed. “You'll never completely get past it. You've spent too many years seeing each other as on opposite sides of a clearly defined line. It's how Cullen dealt with Kinloch and then with Kirkwall. It's how you dealt with Ostwick.” 

“Kinloch? Why does that name sound familiar?” 

“He hasn’t told you?” At Meera’s negative headshake, Cassandra fumed, “Maker take that blighted idiot!” It was her turn to pace before the fireplace in agitation. “I know he doesn’t want to risk your disappointment but this is beyond all reason!” 

“My disappointment?” And then Meera remembered a half-whispered story from her time in the Tower and felt her stomach drop to her toes. “Kinloch is the Ferelden Circle that fell to blood magic during the Blight!” 

“It didn’t fall, precisely,” Cassandra corrected. “But many of the inhabitants, mages and Templars alike, were tortured or killed.” She paused and sorrow moved across her face and Meera knew with a sick roll in her belly what Cassandra was going to say. “Kinloch was Cullen’s first posting as a Templar. He was there. He was…the abominations and demons did terrible things to him.” 

“ _Mages_ did terrible things to him,” Meera whispered, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to see Cassandra’s sympathy. Oh, Maker, what must he think, feeling her magic along his skin? How could he look at her and not remember? 

“You know he has Fade terrors and you know about the lyrium withdrawals. The one most likely affects the other. As the lyrium works out of his system, the nightmares hold more sway. From what he told me, you have taken a prominent place in those nightmares.” Cassandra hesitated, concerned by the stark, pale look to Meera’s skin. When her eyes blinked open, however, there was a calmness there which reassured Cassandra. “He dreams about hurting you. Some part of him enjoys it.” 

When Meera sighed and looked down, her shoulders slumping, Cassandra frowned, reached out, and shook her shoulder. At the Inquisitor’s pained look, Cassandra smiled lopsidedly. “He doesn’t need pity or softness from you. He needs you to be strong, bold, daring. He needs to see the Inquisitor we see on the battlefield, rushing headlong toward a rift among the demons.” 

“That seems…” Meera frowned and cocked her head, tapping a foot against the leg of the table, considering the words, turning them over and around. She thought of a Templar trying to slip his leash, of a Commander who left his men to hold a weeping woman because she asked it of him, of a man who loved her so tenderly and then slept alone out of misplaced chivalry, of Cullen being trapped in a Tower as she had been. And she understood. “It’s my turn to rescue him.” 

“Ah, Princess, I knew you’d get there.” When both Meera and Cassandra startled and turned to give him the same aggrieved but affectionate look, Varric grinned unrepentantly. “I have a plan. Wanna hear it?” 

OoO 

Afternoon exercises were just beginning on the practice grounds when Meera came striding confidently down the hill, hips swaying, pretty pink mouth quirked arrogantly, eyes sparking a challenge, aggression and magic fairly rolling off of her in waves. Armored and armed men and women scattered out of her way like a flock of birds around a sleek, stalking feline, others not in her way turning to point and whisper and stare. Cullen was no better, turning to her as to a lodestone as she paused in the center of the loose half-circle the soldiers had made for her. She raised one haughty auburn brow in his direction, daring him to look his fill. 

The armor was enough to catch anyone’s eye. The black leather duster acted as a perfect frame for every ample curve of her body from neck to ankle, belted loosely at her slender waist with shining silver to match its endless row of buttons and the armored knee-high boots. Underneath she wore royal blue, skintight leggings and tunic, that left even less of her perfect hourglass figure to the imagination than the coat. Slung across her back was the sinuous and deadly staff rumored to have been the legendary weapon of Tyrdda Bright-Axe, a heroine of the Avvar, the pale golden jewel at its peak winking malevolently. Hanging at her hip was the sword of her office, the pyrophite a match for her hair, both glowing heat and fire and light in the sun. She was magnificent and beautiful and deadly, and Cullen felt as if someone had landed a solid punch to his heart. 

“Commander. I’ve come to give a demonstration, as we arranged.” Her smirk widened when he frowned darkly at her, his feet bringing him forward before his mind could urge caution. He did manage to halt before he reached for her, recognizing the challenge in her eyes as something personal and passionate. Her look fairly thrummed through him as she subjected him to the same slow, thorough perusal he’d given her, and when her eyes rose to his once more, he felt his knees nearly buckle at the frank sexual approval he found there. Her voice was a taunting purr. “You're even properly dressed for the occasion with your armor and your big sword.” 

She nearly shivered when he leaned in, his warm breath feathering across her cheek, his eyes narrow, flashing a warning. “What game is this, Inquisitor?” he demanded in a low, rough tone which had Meera’s belly fluttering. Letting her own voice drop, she turned so their lips were almost touching, darkly pleased when she heard him draw in a sharp breath and saw his pupils expand. 

“Come play with me and find out.” Before he could respond, she stepped lightly away from him and pulled her staff from her back. Setting it into the dirt with a little downward push of force, she heard gasps as the earth rippled away from her like water. Raising her voice to be heard, she called, “Your Commander has been kind enough to agree to let me test my skills against his. We thought an audience might keep us from hurting each other too badly.” 

“Or enjoying it too much!” called a gleeful voice from somewhere in the crowd. 

Meera had to hide a laugh in a cough when Cullen growled, “Dorian,” under his breath. 

When Varric had presented this idea to her and Cassandra, she had at first been appalled, then intrigued, and now standing in front of Cullen, watching him watch her with hungry, hesitant amber eyes, she realized she was enjoying herself. Whirling her staff in a quick arc, she teased, “Afraid of me, Commander?” 

“No,” he said automatically but when she reached out and ran a fingertip down his arm, the barest hint of storm magic raising the fine hairs on his skin, Cullen realized that wasn’t precisely true. He didn’t fear Meera, the woman who loved him, and he didn’t fear Lady Trevelyan, the Inquisitor, but this woman wearing mage armor, wielding a staff, lightning dancing around her fingertips, this _mage_ , reminded him too much of the past, of a cage made of magic and lyrium and pain. 

The involuntary step back he took had the crowd hooting and color racing across his cheekbones. 

“You’ll fight me, Cullen.” When his eyes arrowed to her face, he found her looking at him implacably, those gentle green eyes full of a plea he couldn’t interpret. “You’ll fight me, or I’ll make you.” She stepped back, replacing her staff on her back and calling forth a ball of lightning in her hand. She enunciated each word clearly and precisely: “Now draw your sword.” 

He obeyed the command in her voice and his own jumping pulse, lifting his shield just in time to send most of the energy she lobbed toward him skittering away. There was a ragged cheer from the crowd when he shook off the weak freezing spell she tried next, followed quickly by a surprised intake of breath as a blade made of pure light appeared in her hand, stabbing down toward his unprotected side. He twisted away from it, felt the whoosh of air as she stepped into the motion, saw the barrier shimmer into life around her only moments before the flat of his blade could connect with the small of her back. The look of triumph on her face had him stepping back, shaking his head. This wasn't a game; he could _hurt_ her. Part of him was terrified he wanted to. “No. No, Meera, I will not fight you. Do not…do not make me do this.” 

She stepped into him, the whole of her body aligned with his in a pantomime of an embrace, and Cullen felt his cock stir, felt the rise of his nightmares like bile in his throat, holding her down, shoving his sword inside of her even as he shoved himself inside of her, her pleas and screams and the blood, everywhere. His fists clenched, the grip of his sword and shield digging into his palms, grounding him. Then she rose onto tiptoe, dragging her breasts against his breastplate, the faint screech of metal on metal a harsh song. She fisted one hand into the back of his hair, yanked his head down, and pressed her lips to his, a hard, punishing kiss, her teeth grazing his lower lip, her tongue stabbing into his mouth. Dimly he heard the whistles and catcalls from the crowd as he fought a losing battle between his instincts and his heart, torn between flight, fight, or fuck. With one last, hard nip to his mouth, she whispered, “Fight me, Cullen, and know they’re just dreams.” 

She fell back from him into a guard stance, the phantom sword flickering into life before her, and watched emotions chase themselves across his face: despair, loss, pain, regret, rage, desire, a tangled morass, until finally, finally, he hefted his sword and his shield, mirroring her stance, and said, defiantly, “Take me, if you can.” 

Whether he was speaking to her or the nightmares, neither of them could be sure. 

This was a dance to which he had been raised and one which she had learned only painfully over the past months; yet, they danced together here as well as they had on the balcony and in the bed at the Winter Palace. She was unsure yet with the spirit blade, unused to wielding a sword against an opponent, but her practice with the Trial of Swords stood her in good stead. He fought mostly as a warrior rather than a Templar, hesitant to reach for abilities he was sure were gone with the lyrium. They each scored hits: she with a powerful mind blast that nearly knocked his feet out from under him, he with a solid shield bash that had her scrambling to rebuild her barrier before he could follow through. 

They circled one another warily, neither giving ground, both panting slightly. It occurred to both of them at nearly identical moments that they had never seen each other fight, not truly. Haven had been a blur of steel and terror, her magic rushing ahead while he rallied the troops from the back. They had never worked together with their Templars and mages, either, which struck Cullen as inefficient and Meera as ridiculous: who better to teach a mage and a Templar how to be a team than another mage and Templar? 

Perhaps it had never been only Cullen who wanted to ignore the past that divided them so neatly. 

Cullen lunged suddenly and thwapped her along the hip the flat of his sword, his grin fast and hot and cocky. Seeing an opening, Meera returned the look, wide and uninhibited and feral, and lifted her marked hand. The anchor began to spark, bleeding magic, magic that scraped against the edges of his senses, grating and grinding and just this side of painful. From the crowd came a cry of, “That’s cheating!” that was quickly hushed when Meera tilted her hand, letting the green light trickle from her fingertips like raindrops. Terror tried to claw its way into Cullen’s throat as he heard the unmistakable crackling sound that heralded the opening or closing of a Fade rift. “Meera,” he cautioned, hoarse and low, and she knew he was suitably distracted enough. Twisting the hand she still held at her side, she reached down inside of herself to the deep well of faith where flame lived. _Consume_ , she thought, and watched in a sort of horrified fascination as fire bloomed like a deadly flower in a ring around them and rushed inward, hungry to obey. 

Desperation was a suffocating weight on Cullen's chest as her power sprang into being around them, constricting his lungs, each labored breath smelling of ash and smoke and the acrid stench of his own fear. She'd been playing with him, frost and lightning and a sword of light, all feints, all to lull him into complacency, to leave him panting after her like the foolish, weak man he was, chained to her, chained to the Chantry, forever a slave to magic and lyrium and the shame of his weakness. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see her beautiful, beloved, traitorous face and his own failure. 

She saw him waver, felt her heart stutter in her chest, prayed she and Cassandra and Varric weren't terribly, horribly wrong. Though she readied a barrier, above the crackle and roar of the flames she screamed, “And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.” When still he hesitated, she cried, “Cullen, _stop me_!” His eyes blinked open, his mouth firmed, and he planted his feet, bringing his sword and his shield together before him. 

The spell purge spread across the battlefield in a wave of shimmering blue light, the utter negation of reality, relentless pressure and weight, driving Meera to her knees as her fire winked out of existence and her staff clattered to the ground. The barrier she'd prepared slipped through her fingers like water as Cullen severed her from the Fade, a clean cut that had her making a pained sound as even the mark on her hand sputtered weakly. She vaguely registered the crowd cheering wildly over the persistent ringing in her ears, more attuned to Cullen sinking to his knees beside her in the dirt, sword and shield abandoned, snatching her up against his chest with a growled, “Foolish woman.” 

She let him take most of her weight, reaching up to press a trembling hand to his face. She had to swallow twice before she found her voice, her lungs still having difficulty pulling in enough air. With a gasp, she felt him release his hold on her magic, felt it sing in her veins, the tingles of a sleeping limb released from bondage. “Stubborn man.” 

In the distance, the crowd was being forcibly dispersed by Leliana and Iron Bull. Neither Cullen nor Meera noticed, intent only on each other. 

His laugh was unsteady, his cheek rough as he pressed it to hers. “You almost set us on fire. What if I hadn’t…” 

“You did.” She turned and pressed her lips to his jaw. “The lyrium is just a crutch. Your abilities are part of who you are, just as mine are part of me.” A little steadier, she cupped his face in her hands, willing him to hear her, needing him to believe. “Together, we’re _more_.” 

There was the sound of footsteps, deliberate, and both Cullen and Meera turned to find Cole beaming at them. First, he pointed to Cullen. “Solid and strong, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him.” Then he pointed to Meera. “Magic and might, faith and focus. She feels like light, steadier when you hold her.” The boy let out a rapturous sigh. “Together, you are the fire at the heart of the world.” 

Before either of them could respond, Cole was tromping away, making even more noise in the leaving than he had in the arrival. 

“He is more confusing every day,” Meera muttered, frowning after him. 

Cullen dropped his forehead to her shoulder with another chuckle. Giving up all pretense of dignity, he sank onto his ass in the dirt, cuddling her into his lap. She immediately turned and wrapped arms and legs around him, heedless of his armor digging into her stomach and breasts. “Don't ever do that again, Cullen Rutherford,” she said severely, pressing a kiss to his ear. 

“Which part?” he asked ruefully, nuzzling his nose into her neck, breathing her in. “The part where I acted like an ass after taking your maidenhead, when I avoided you for a week, or when I demanded Cassandra demote me?” 

“The part where you didn't trust me,” she said quietly, hurt rife in her voice. He blew a disgusted breath out his nose and leaned back, cupping her face in his hands. 

“I never meant for this to interfere. Not with us, not with my duties, not with any of it.” 

She covered his hands with her own and squeezed, a warm pulse of her healing magic shivering through them both. Muscles Cullen hadn't even realized were knotted beyond agony eased into low aching. He groaned appreciatively. 

“Tell me about the Ferelden Circle,” she murmured. When he hesitated, she leaned in and laid her lips gently over his, the barest touch, smoothing her fingers through his hair. When she eased back, he sighed, sucked in a deep breath, nodded. 

“It was taken over by abominations. The Templars – _my friends_ – were slaughtered. I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I...” He trailed away, leaned into the stroke of her fingers over his neck and cheek. “Meera, how can you be the same person after that?” 

His look of grief, the banked rage in his amber eyes, the plea in his voice tore at her. Her brave, stalwart Commander. “You aren't.” 

“No. No. The nightmares...” He shuddered, closed his eyes. “I woke screaming for months.” 

“Yet they sent you to Kirkwall.” The note of resentment was clear and Cullen couldn't resist brushing his lips over her crown. His sweet, soft-hearted Inquisitor. She curled closer and he relished the weight of her in his arms. 

“I wanted to serve.” It had always been as simple, and as complex, as that. Serving his Maker and the Bride, serving the mages, serving his fellow Templars, serving the Chantry. But his trust in Knight-Commander Meredith had been monstrously misplaced. And his will to serve twisted to a terrible end. “My Knight-Commander's fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall's Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.” He leaned his cheek on the top of her head. “We've always wanted control over the Circles and the mages, the Chantry holding the Templars' leash as we stood between the mages and freedom. You, better than anyone, can understand why I want nothing to do with that life.” 

“Yes.” And she did. Cages and Circles and Towers and addiction, all in the name of a Maker she believed would be appalled to see His will turned against His creations. Cullen was the most honorable man she knew and yet he would carry scars for the rest of his life. “Perhaps this is why He turned His gaze from us.” 

He stroked his hands up her back and nodded against her temple. “I thought this would be better – that I would regain some control over my life. But, Meera, the nightmares...” He swallowed. He had known telling her would be difficult but even after everything, he was ashamed, nausea churning in his gut, sweat slicking his skin. “There was a woman, a mage, at Kinloch. I had...she was...” 

“You had a relationship with her.” Meera attempted to sound neutral and only managed to sound aloof, jealousy a wild nest of snakes in her belly. Intellectually she knew he'd had other women; she'd been grateful for that experience when he touched her, hadn't she? Confronted with the reality of this other woman, this other _mage_ , however, made Meera's old feelings of inadequacy rear up to nip at her. 

“More like I was a green boy and infatuated with a woman who reveled in it,” he corrected, shaking his head at the young man he'd been. “She was everything I've come to despise: flighty and fanciful and drunk on her own power. But I wanted her, wanted what I knew I couldn't have. They chose me to stand at her Harrowing, to be the one to strike the final blow.” 

“Oh,” she murmured with a soft exhale, her jealousy draining away as quickly as it had come. “How terrible for you.” 

“It never came to pass. When Uldred took the tower, he took Renee. She became...” He shuddered, the memories of the cage closer without the balm of lyrium. “It was a Desire demon. It twisted my lust to violence. It wanted, needed, me to hurt her. I still…almost every night I’m there again, with the demon, with the blood and the death and the endless pain.” 

There were no words. Instead, she pressed her face into his neck, slipped her hands up under his cloak, wrapped him in her warmth and her comfort and her love. He took heart and courage from her quiet acceptance. “Do you remember the day you brought me the watchtower plans?” 

She nodded. “Yes. It was the first time you ever gave me a compliment.” 

His low chuckle held surprise and chagrin. She savored the rumble of it against her. “It was the first time I thought of you as a woman.” At her inquiring look, he trailed his gloved hand down the front of her neck. “You blushed and I watched it spread and wondered if it would cover your very pretty breasts.” She made a little inarticulate sound as his wide palm flattened over her collarbone, his glove rasping against her skin. “That night when I dreamed, when I gave in to my baser instincts as I always do in the nightmares, you came to me. You came to me and you took me into you and you whispered to me from the Chant and though I woke hard and alone, I endured.” He lifted his eyes from his hand on her skin, his pupils blown as his dreams tangled with his memories of her soft voice and soft skin and honeyed sensuality. Meera caught her breath, rocking her hips into his, another pleasure sound escaping her at the friction. 

Cullen arched under her, fingers tightening around her throat. His breath stuttered at the feel of her, even through the layers of their armor. He tried to focus, grasping for composure when she pressed her lips over the throb of his pulse in his neck. “When you were poisoned, I dreamed it was you taken by the demon, your face and voice it used to turn me to depravity.” His hand trailed down her side to cup over the scar he knew was there, rubbing absently. “After, when I was disgusted by the terrible things I did with you, for you, _to_ you, you held your hand out to me and asked me to stay.” He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, the memories clawing at him, the next part harder to force past his suddenly dry throat. Meera wanted to weep as his handsome face contorted. “After we were together in Orlais, the nightmare was fire and blood and my sword in your belly even while we both writhed in pleasure.” 

She didn’t say anything for long moments, long enough for Cullen to stiffen against her and start to pull away. She grabbed the edge of his pauldrons and squeezed her legs tighter around him. “No. I’m not upset or disgusted.” At his skeptical snort, she raised a haughty auburn brow but ruined the effect by caressing his cheek. “The day you saw me practicing the Trial in Haven, you told me about a little boy who dreamed of a sword of his very own. A little boy who grew into a man who promised to protect mages and the mundanes alike with that sword and his shield.” She lifted his hands and drew off his gloves, slowly, one finger at a time, until she could trace the hard lines of callus that marked them. “Cullen, you live a life of violence. A sword, a shield, Templar talents: these are _weapons_. _You_ are a weapon, honed to a killing edge. Yet, you’re also gentle, and kind, and honorable. Two sides of you and they are poor bedfellows at the best of times.” Her spring eyes softened, not pity or regret but empathy. “And you, my love, have never had the best of times.” 

He measured her words carefully, weighing the merit. “But it’s always sex. In the dreams. I always…” He swallowed hard around the shame and guilt, flushing. “I always want to fight _and_ fuck.” 

Meera managed, but barely, to hide the reaction of her body to Cullen’s beautiful mouth forming such a wicked word. Something deep in her belly tightened, a hard, delicious ache between her thighs and in her breasts. Her voice was decidedly prudish when she managed to find it. “We had the same lectures on the evils of sex, especially between Templars and mages. And the Desire demon used sex against you, used what you _are_ against you. It’s not surprising, though I think you give them more power than you should.” Her hands framed his face, desire tempered by love for this brave, stubborn, wonderful man. “They’re only dreams, Cullen. Bad ones, terrible ones, and I hate that they hurt you. But don’t let them turn you away from me.” Her voice hitched, trembled. “I can’t bear it when you turn away from me.” 

He gathered her close, some of his worry sliding from his shoulders. But not all. “Still, the memories will always haunt me. Without the lyrium…how many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause. I will _not_ give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry.” When she remained silent, he dropped his head back and growled, “I should be taking it!” Then, softer, “I should be taking it.” 

“Is that what you want?” she asked, quietly, no heaviness in her voice or her leaf green eyes when he searched them, only a sincere interest in what he wanted. And wasn’t that a miracle, that she, with the weight of Thedas on her shoulders, cared about what he wanted? 

“No. But Meera, if I cannot endure…” 

She pressed her marked hand to his heart, over his armor. “You can. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” 

He covered her hand with his and exhaled, still troubled. “You forgive me so easily. You trust me so much. I am not sure I deserve it.” 

“I love you.” Before he could reply, she pulled his head gently down to hers and pressed her lips to his. 

What began as a sweet gesture quickly turned on them, his mouth slanting hungrily over hers, his tongue asking for and being granted entrance, fingers fumbling with buckles and laces until, with a sudden harsh laugh, he tore his mouth away from hers. “We’re sitting in the dirt in the middle of the practice ring.” 

She blinked at him, then at their surrounds, then back at him. He nearly groaned when her pink tongue swept over her kiss swollen lips and she squirmed atop him. His cock throbbed in response, his hands tightening on her hips as he ground her down against him. She rewarded him with a little whimper, her voice breathy. “Oh. Yes. We could…go. To my quarters.” 

He was up and pulling her to her feet before she could finish the thought. “Get your staff, sweetheart. I’ll meet you in your quarters after I clean up a bit.” 

Her smile was shy, flirty, and just a little unsure. Cullen’s heart squeezed painfully tight. “I have a bathtub.” 

Reaching out, he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “So you do. Am I being invited to share?” When she hesitated, her eyes searching his, Cullen said, softly, “Meera?” 

Something flickered through her eyes, something that tore at Cullen. Then it was gone and she was just Meera, swinging her staff over her shoulder and grinning at him wickedly. “I’ll warm the water. Don’t keep me waiting.” Her walk away gave him a tantalizing view of her curvy, swaying hips and perfect ass. 

He stowed his sword and his shield more quickly than usual. 


	17. Trials 15.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NSFW.** If you want a slightly different, less smutty version, try [ Fanfiction.net ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11384005/17/Dissonant-Verses)
> 
> Trials 15.1:  
>  _Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present,_  
>  _And those I have called, they remember,_  
>  _And they shall endure._  
>  _I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know,_  
>  _We are Yours, and none shall stand before us._

Cullen kept her waiting, much to his disgust. A detour to his tower for clean clothes and to properly stow his armor meant he was waylaid by a scout with a stack of reports and by a few of his own troops who wanted to discuss and dissect his bout with the Inquisitor. He waved them off with a stern warning to get back to work. As they filed out, shooting surprised and frustrated glances over their shoulders at him, he glowered impatiently and hoped Meera wasn’t thinking he’d changed his mind. 

He couldn't quite shake the disquieting feeling something was still wrong between them. 

He was further waylaid in the main hall by Josephine, who told him with a knowing smile that she’d had dinner set up in the Inquisitor’s rooms for them. “I’m sure Meera can warm it up if it gets cold,” she teased, her smile widening when Cullen stammered out his thanks and blushed. Her pat to the arm was sisterly and surprising, but not unwelcome. “You’re good for her, Commander.” 

“I think it goes both ways, girl,” Blackwall commented, nodding to Cullen respectfully as the Grey Warden ambled up from somewhere nearby. “Good to take a break from reports and exercises every now and again.” His speaking glance toward Josephine was not lost on Cullen; there had been rumors, of course, and the fresh flowers which appeared on the Ambassador’s desk every day, but Josephine’s coquettish glance from under her dark lashes was confirmation. He wondered if it was the threat of the end of the world that had everyone … what was it Varric had said? ‘Humping like bunnies.’ 

“Speaking of taking a break, Commander, the supplies you requested for the trip into Ferelden have been approved. Have you decided when you wish to leave?” Josephine asked. 

He barely managed not to curse. The trip to his childhood home had been part of his grand plan from before the masque, a chance for him and Meera to spend some time together alone, to discover each other as more than just Herald and Commander. Except now he’d kept her waiting near on an an hour after a sennight of the silent treatment and a confession of his darkest sins. How was he supposed to approach her about taking a romantic jaunt through the countryside? He rubbed the back of his neck and felt every one of the muscles she'd loosened knotting right back up. “I have not. Will it be possible for me to steal away the Inquisitor anytime soon?” 

Josephine tapped her foot and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, clearly mentally reviewing some arbitrary schedule Cullen could never understand. He caught Blackwall’s amused, indulgent look. “Yesssss,” she agreed hesitantly, then more firmly, “Yes. I am currently negotiating with Empress Celene on a few matters and until those are resolved, she should be available. Say, the next fortnight.” 

Blackwall shook his head. “She needs to check in with Hawke and Stroud in the Western Approach. She got a raven just yesterday from Hawke. Lots of Venatori activity up there suddenly.” 

Josephine stiffened and turned her head away slightly. Blackwall grimaced and scraped a hand over his face. 

“I can make some time for the trip, Commander,” Josephine said with finality. “Should we say when she returns from the Western Approach, then?” 

“I will speak with her about it,” Cullen agreed. 

“See that you do. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Blackwall and I have business to discuss.” Her voice was prim and businesslike, her lovely golden face even more so as she turned it up toward Blackwall. 

Blackwall’s eyebrows rose and his voice deepened as he laid a broad hand on the Ambassador’s back. Some tension seemed to go out of his shoulders. “Is that what we’re calling it now, my Lady?” he inquired pleasantly. At Josephine’s narrow, threatening look, his white teeth flashed through his heavy black beard. “Well, then, Commander, good luck conducting your _business_ with the Inquisitor.” 

Josephine's hissed invective and Blackwall's boisterous guffaw had Cullen chuckling in spite of himself. 

He was still chuckling when he reached the top of the stairs in Meera’s quarters. She was standing in the middle of the room with a strange expression on her face, staring at him. He stopped uncertainly near her sofa, the smile sliding away as he nervously cleared his throat and set his extra clothes down. Leaning over, he unlaced and then toed off his boots, setting them aside. Unnerved by her continued silence, he straightened. “I’m sorry I took so long…” he began, only for her to step forward, slide her arms around him, and declare, 

“You should do that more often.” 

Distracted by the belated realization she'd discarded all of her outer trappings, leaving her pressed against him wearing only the thigh-length tunic that hugged her curves like a second skin and her smallclothes, her hair a long single braid down her back, Cullen palmed her hips and pressed her closer. “Do what?” he managed when she rose slowly on to her toes to nuzzle the hollow of his throat. He nearly groaned when her hands squeezed his ass, the purred sound of her pleasure arrowing straight to his groin. Lust and love tangled in his belly as she moved against him, inciting him with her voice and her touch, with her scent. He'd missed her so much, had ached for her while he'd stayed away, tortured himself with memories of how she tasted and smelled and felt under him, around him. 

“Smile.” Meera nosed into the open neck of his tunic and sank her teeth into his shoulder, pleased when his hands flexed against her skin. “Laugh.” She nibbled and licked and kissed her way up his throat, pausing to investigate the underside of his jaw, his scent of sweat and forest and iron making her light-headed and needy. She pressed closer against the solid wall of his chest and danced her fingers up his spine, her mouth hovering near his ear as she whispered, “You said you always want to fight _and_ fuck. Well, we fought. Maybe now we should fuck.” 

At her guilelessly breathless invitation, Cullen had to wage a sudden, vicious battle with his own baser instincts. He'd dreamed of this, not the nightmares but fantasies, not sweet or tender but brutal and quick, sex as a basic, animal need. She deserved more, better, but oh, oh Maker at the word 'fuck' from her soft pink lips, a hot rush of blood to his cock nearly sent him to his knees. 

Doubts, both old and new, assailed Meera when Cullen went rigid against her, the absolute stillness of a Templar on duty, the hands at her hips fisting in the fabric of her tunic. She'd wanted, planned, to seduce him, to burn off some of the nervous energy from their sparring and the lingering feelings of abandonment, to show him that she'd missed him, needed him, wanted him, to give him love in the way he seemed best able to accept. Fearing she'd gravely offended him, she made a move to pull away and found herself suddenly crowded back against the wall next to the bathing chamber. 

His mouth was on hers before she could blink, hot and demanding and fierce, his tongue sweeping in to plunder, and Meera only dimly registered her hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders as she sought to meet and match his ferocity with lips and teeth and tongue. As abruptly as he'd captured it, he released her mouth to assault her neck, his hands plunging into the back of her smalls, forcing them down her thighs. “Get rid of them,” he panted, lapping at her nipple through her tunic and stays and she scissored her legs, desperate to comply, kicking the garment away from her. She felt his hands working between them and she would have glanced down if he hadn’t closed his teeth over her through the cloth and tugged, sending a molten dart of heat straight to her sex that made her shudder and whimper for more. There was the low sound of cursing, his, she realized with wicked delight, and then his hands tightened like manacles under her thighs and he hoisted her up and then she was crying out in shock and surprise and pleasure as he pushed his cock inside of her in one long, sure stroke, her legs winding around him automatically. 

His breath in her ear was harsh, his voice ragged, “Your tunic. I need …” He rolled his hips and Meera nearly sobbed at how full she was, the slight burn as her damp flesh rippled and pulsed, tried to accommodate his length, barely able to think, all heat and light and bliss, as he rocked his hips forcefully against her. “Give me your breasts,” he growled, nipping her ear, her shoulder, her mouth. 

Balanced precariously in his hold and not able to care, knowing he’d never let her fall, she pulled the tunic up and over her head. When she tried to undo her stays, the buck of his hips only serving to make her fingers clumsy, he shoved her hands away and pinned her between his body and the rough stone of the wall. Using his hands, he lifted the round, heavy globes of her breasts up and over the half-corset, plucking at her nipples with his fingers. 

The high-pitched, needy whine he drew from her throat coupled with the way she rolled her hips in a tight circle against him had Cullen jerking back and then thrusting forward, hard. Her head fell back to bare the long, vulnerable line of her throat in invitation. He marked her pulse point with his mouth, banding an arm behind her back to arch her up and out, attacking her breasts with nips and bites, laving her sensitive nipples before closing his teeth over one and tugging, darkly pleased when she writhed and keened, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Is this what you wanted?” he demanded hoarsely, the hand at her back fisting around the thick rope of her hair as he set up a hard, punishing rhythm with his hips, dragging the flat of his tongue between her breasts. When she didn't answer, he wound her braid tighter around his fist and yanked until their eyes met, hers wide and deep and dazed, his cock throbbing with each heavy beat of his blood, each slick pulse of her sex. “Tell me, Meera, tell me you wanted me to fuck you.” 

His eyes were nearly black, rimmed by molten gold, narrow and focused, and Meera was helpless, trapped by his body, by the pleasure he wrung from her with the hard snap of his hips and his hoarse, aroused voice. “Yes!” she managed as he slammed into her again, deep, pulled again on her hair. “Yes, oh Maker, yes, Cullen, fuck me, more, please...” She wasn't sure what she was saying, the pleasure a heavy, dense thing, making it hard to breathe, only aware she didn't want him to stop, he couldn't stop, he felt so good there between her legs, where she wanted him, inside her, fucking her, she loved him so much, needed him so much, so close, she was so close... 

Overwhelmed with lust, swamped with love as she babbled her need and her want and her adoration, her hips twisting to take all of him, to take more of him, Cullen pushed one of her legs down, shifted her other higher on his hip, shoved his hand between her legs. She was dripping wet, her slick coating his fingers and his cock, slippery as he found her clit, circled the bundle of nerves, pressed hard as she wailed and thrashed. “Yes, you're so wet for me, so tight, Maker!” he groaned into her neck. 

This time when he pushed into her, the swollen head of his cock scraped over the perfect spot deep inside and his fingers teased her swollen, aching clit and she was gone, heat and force and light, splintering around him as she raked her nails down his back, his name lost in a wail. She felt his hips stutter against hers, heard him growl something that might have been her name, spilling into her with a muffled groan. The force of his orgasm, feeling his big body shuddering against her, sent Meera to another, surprisingly sharp, peak, leaving her limp and trembling against him, sated and nearly insensible. 

As Cullen attempted to steady, the world running in streamers of color, he registered the tremors in her limbs, the hitch and gasp of her breath, and fumbled around until he sank onto the settee with her in his lap, their bodies still joined. Her grip around him, legs and arms and inside, where he was still half-hard and sensitive, tightened, causing him to jerk as if to move away. 

“No moving,” she ordered, her voice slurred, nuzzling into the hollow of his throat. “You still owe me a bath.” She squirmed in his lap and made a purring sound when she felt his cock twitch inside her, heard his sharp intake of breath. “But we can stay like this for a bit.” She patted him lightly over his heart, tilting her head back to smile at him, soft with wicked edges. “I like you inside me.” 

“That's...” He swallowed hard when she moved again, a circle of her hips that had him arching beneath her. “Wicked, greedy woman.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, grinning when she wrinkled it at him. “Meera, I just had you. I’ll need time before I can have you again.” 

Something shifted in her expression, a hesitancy, her fingers plucking at the shoulders of the tunic he hadn’t bothered to remove as her eyes fell. Deciding now was as good a time as any, he shrugged out of it, then gently set about removing her stays, surprised at the snarl she’d managed to make of the knot. Once he’d discarded the clever but damnable contraption, he traced the marks he’d left on her breasts, enjoying the silkiness of her skin, the generous fullness of her that fit perfectly in his hands. She hummed her pleasure as his thumbs brushed over her nipples, her hands stroking his chest. “Cullen.” 

“Hmmm?” he asked, distracted by the surprisingly slender curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the way her sex flexed and rippled around him with each brush of his fingers over her skin. Then he felt her healing magic weave around him, through him, the gentle spring shower rather than the dangerous storm, and abruptly he was hard and full again inside of her, aching as if he hadn’t just spent himself moments before. “Andraste’s pyre, Meera!” 

Stung when his hands fell away from her, Meera winced and curled slightly away from him. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t…I’ve never…the other mages used to gossip about it. I just wanted…” 

His arms wound around her, tugging until she leaned into his chest, her cheek pillowed over his heart. There was a bit of amazement in his voice as he tried to ignore the sudden demands of his body. “Can all mages do that?” 

She shrugged a shoulder, kissed his collarbone, traced a scar on the back of his left shoulder. “The ones with healing magic said they could.” She lifted her eyes to his, vaguely ashamed of herself. “I should have asked before I tried.” 

“Yes,” he agreed. “Now that you have, though, I _do_ remember something about a bath.” He shifted and stood, laughing when she squeaked, eyes going wide and dark as he bounced her atop his cock with each step to her bathing alcove. “Think it’s still warm?” 

She was still spluttering indignantly, water sloshing on the floor, when he slid into the bath and into her. 

OoO 

They fell on the food Josephine had provided sometime later, ravenous and uncaring that it was cold. They made an impromptu picnic among blankets and pillows before the fire, feeding each other bits of food and stealing kisses, Meera wearing Cullen’s clean shirt, he in the loose trews he usually wore for sleeping. It was quietly domestic and when Meera asked if he was feeling better, he could answer with complete truthfulness that he was. “The pain comes and goes,” he admitted quietly, rubbing a strand of her unbound hair between his finger and thumb. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there. I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle. I was not … myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me.” He sighed, kissed the top of her head. “I’m not proud of the man that made me. The way I saw mages…” He released her hair to capture her hand, lacing their fingers together, marveling at how his hand engulfed hers nearly completely. “I’m not sure I would have cared about you, and the thought of that sickens me.” 

She squeezed his hand, lifted it to brush a kiss over his knuckles, rose on her knees to turn and face him, to smile at him. “For what it’s worth, Cullen, I love who you are now.” 

Stroking his hand over cheek, he'd opened his mouth to tell her he loved her, too, and instead heard himself say, “We have some dealings in Ferelden. I was hoping you might accompany me after you return from the Western Approach.” 

“You want us to go on a trip for the Inquisition.” She tried to hide her disappointment by rising, gathering up the detritus of their meal, using the time to smooth out her face and her voice. “Is something wrong?” 

“What? No.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, awash in his own stupidity. “I would rather explain there. If you wish to go.” Which had sounded better in his head. Andraste's ass. But, in for a copper, in for a sovereign. “I’ve already procured the supplies and received approval from Josephine and Leliana.” 

She paused, considered. He was Ferelden. She would be seeing where he came from. They would be alone. Setting the supper tray on her desk, she moved back over and ran her hand through his curls. Setting aside her pride and need when he rubbed his stubbled cheek against her bare thigh, she said, quietly, “Ferelden it is.” 

He stayed with her all night in her big bed and woke her as the sun was peeking over the mountains with stirring kisses and soft caresses, easing her into slow dreamy pleasure quite before she was fully awake or aware. If when he rose she curled onto her side and felt unaccountably like weeping, she told herself she could be, had been, content with less. 

OoO 

She put it away, tucked the hurt and the disappointment and the immense _need_ she had in a corner of her heart. If comfort and genuine friendship and the astonishing pleasure he could wring from her were all he could offer, why shouldn't she grab it with both greedy hands for as long as she could? 

It helped that the mission into the Western Approach was mostly a complete disaster. A false Calling, that seductive song that drew all Grey Wardens in the end to their deaths, had Commander Clarel of the Orlais Wardens sacrificing non-mage Wardens to create an army of abominations to march on the Deep Roads, hoping to end the threat of Blights forever. Except the Calling had been engineered by Corypheus and the mage helping Clarel was one of his pet Venatori; neither had any intention of letting Clarel live or keep her demon army. 

“Holy shite!” Sera collapsed next to Meera in a boneless heap, the elf’s cheek pillowed on Meera’s thigh, her big golden green eyes even wider than usual, if possible. She poked at Meera’s left hand. “You just gave that guy a heave. Arse over biscuit, yeah?” 

“He tried to use the mark to control me,” Meera said, as if that explained anything at all. Sera seemed content enough, though, and just hmmed thoughtfully, playing with a fastening on Meera’s armor. 

Around them, other members of the Inquisition were gathering up camp, preparing for the move back to Skyhold. They’d keep a garrison in the abandoned ritual tower, a small one, and Meera had a few reasons to come back, not the least of which was a dragon which would please Bull, but for the most part the Inquisition had learned what it needed to know in the Western Approach. 

“A demon army,” Dorian sighed from somewhere behind them. “How pedestrian.” Meera, however, heard the wariness in his voice. Redcliffe was never quite as far behind them as they hoped. 

Blackwall, Hawke, and Stroud, however, were grim and angry, and Meera wondered if she looked as weary and bloodied as they. “Why…” She faltered, swallowed, looked blankly down at Sera until the elf obligingly curled up and around her like a vine, skinny muscled arms and legs and smelling of poisons and raisins. They pressed their cheeks together and Meera wished, wistfully, for terrible roof cookies. “Why did they choose death?” 

“Rocks, hard places,” Stroud said quietly, but it was Hawke who came over, squatted down next to Meera, and stroked a hand over her back. They shared a long look, green eyes to grey. They both knew there wasn’t really an answer. 

Sera made as if to nip at Hawke’s fingers, Hawke pretended not to care, and the small laugh they drew from Meera teetered dangerously before settling. “Both of you are mad.” 

Hawke plopped her butt down, pulled the entwined Sera and Meera into her lap, and kissed them both noisily, right on the mouth. “You love us.” 

“I do,” Meera said fervently, smiling up at Dorian as he, too, sank into the warm pile of bodies and was welcomed with more laughing kisses and grunts from Sera about sharing, Blackwall’s hand a warm, familiar weight on her shoulder. 

Stroud watched with a sort of growling impatience until the little slip of a girl lifted her hand to him. Her smile was soft and small and bleak and pure, an arrow to the gut. “I have no comfort for you, Stroud, only a promise, if you will take it: I will not let this happen. The Grey Wardens deserve better.” 

He sank to his haunches in the dust and wind of the Approach and took the Herald’s hand, searching her pretty, guileless, unwavering eyes, the color of spring and new life and hope. She meant it, he realized, every word. “What are you?” he wondered aloud. 

It was Hawke who murmured, “We are Yours. And none shall stand before us.” 


	18. Threnodies 8.28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threnodies 8.28:  
>  _And down they fled into darkness and despair._

The Council and Iron Bull were at the gates of Skyhold when they returned. After a round of greetings, Bull plucked Dorian from his horse, threw him over his shoulder, and slapped him on the ass. “Talk later. Fucking now,” he told the wriggling magister who subsided with a grunt, managing to cross his arms even while upside down. 

“Beast,” Dorian muttered, but with affection which earned him another slap and a little rub as they disappeared to wherever it was either of them slept. 

Blackwall led the mounts away after a quick smile for Josephine, Stroud trailing behind. Only Leliana noted how Stroud sent a last, lingering look to where Meera was watching Cullen with wary, yearning green eyes. 

Meera was startled when Cullen reached for her, face serious but his eyes soft. She let herself press against him then was shocked when he hauled her up against him and kissed her thoroughly, stealing her breath. She knew she was blushing, especially when Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra, and Hawke sighed dreamily, in unison. Sera muttered, “Blech,” as she slid off her nuggalope and strode away, the odd animal trotting after her obediently. 

“Beasts,” Meera echoed and all four women laughed. 

Cullen’s smile was wry as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. He set her down but kept his arm around her. “They have promised me if we can all agree on a tentative battle plan to storm Adamant Fortress, I can steal you away for a few days while they smooth out the details.” 

“Only if he can stop calibrating the trebuchets,” Leliana said dryly. Meera's blank look and the awkward clearing of Cullen's throat had Cassandra taking pity on them. 

“Battle plans and romantic trips into the countryside. We are going soft,” she snorted, then yelped when someone pinched her on the bottom. Whipping around, she found Varric leaning against Hawke with a raised eyebrow. 

“Shut up, Seeker. You're making Hawke feel bad.” 

“Tongue, Cass. I'm _telling_ you,” Hawke said smugly. 

Cassandra suddenly looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. Varric's grin went from smirk to shit-eating. Hawke's eyebrows shot to her hairline and she sputtered as she pointed from Varric to Cassandra and back again. “When...how...what...?!” 

“Why, who,” Meera supplied helpfully and surprised a laugh, a real one, tinkling and sweet, out of Leliana. 

The Spymaster stepped in, nudged Cullen aside for a moment, and framed Meera's flabbergasted face between her palms. “Welcome home, Meera.” 

It was the first time Leliana had ever called her anything except 'Herald' or 'Inquisitor'. Meera lifted her hands and covered Leliana's. “Only here long enough to bathe, plan a siege, and then run away again.” 

“Then we should begin planning.” Leliana pressed a kiss to Meera's forehead. “I need to speak with Stroud for a moment. I will meet you in the War Room.” 

Cullen held Meera back as everyone, including a still-spluttering Hawke, headed into the keep. He pressed his forehead to hers, rubbed his hands up and down her back. “I missed you.” 

How was she supposed to have a defense against him? How could she deny how wonderful it felt to have him hold her, kiss her, touch her? As she wrapped herself around him, she wondered, briefly, if she must. Greedy hands, she thought, hazily, as she kissed him, long and deep and drowning. 

He groaned and nipped her lip, lightly, before tucking her against his side. “You make me forget myself,” he murmured. “To work?” 

She sighed dramatically. “If we must.” 

OoO 

They’d all agreed on a course of action for Adamant. Meera decided it must be some sort of sign and deliberately set out with Cullen the next morning prepared to let herself relax and enjoy and be present. He made it much too easy. The farther away they rode from Skyhold, the more he allowed himself to be charming and interesting and mischievous. He challenged her to races, he stopped for lazy picnics by swiftly running brooks, he kissed her and held her hand and just talked to her at every opportunity about everything except the Inquisition. 

When they made camp the first night, she offered to pitch the tent while he went in search of firewood. He skimmed a finger down her cheek and leaned in for a kiss. Leaving her breathless, he tapped a finger on her nose and smiled. “I’ll find us some game for dinner, too.” She watched with interest as he slung a bow and quiver over his shoulder, secured both a dagger and his sword to his belt, and headed deeper into the forest. True to his word, he returned with two field dressed rabbits already spitted and ready for the fire. 

“Why am I surprised you know how to do that?” she asked him with a smile and a shake of her head. He grinned back and shrugged, sinking down to set the firewood in the circle of stones she’d already prepared. The tent, he was pleased to note, was also well-placed, their packs already stowed, their bedroll neatly made, and a fur throw spread before the fire. 

“I grew up on a freehold and was the oldest boy. I was hunting with my father before I was barely out of swaddling clothes.” He turned to find her stuffing herbs into the rabbits before tying them neatly closed with twine and returning them to their spits. “Where did a Bann’s daughter and a mage of the Circle learn to stuff a rabbit?” Cullen reached for the rack she’d set out, positioning it around the fire to accept their dinner. 

Crouching next to him, she reached out and touched a few of the small twigs in succession. Magic flared, orange and red and hot, until a fire was crackling merrily. She leaned companionably against his shoulder as he took the rabbits from her and placed them on the rack. “It’s new,” she admitted. “Cassandra and Varric decided it was important I had more survival skills than setting things on fire and running away.” She gave him a nudge with her hip when he chuckled. “You laugh but I bet you thought the same when we first met.” 

His arm slid around her. “I did, I admit. You were so…” He paused, considered. “Controlled. In everything.” He huffed out another laugh and shook his head. “I say that like you’ve changed but you haven’t, not really.” His amber eyes slid to her face as he smoothed the back of his hand over her cheek. “Have you had to perform the Trial recently?” 

It wasn’t a question she was expecting or one she’d considered. She let him tug her down until she was sitting between his legs before the fire on the throw, within easy reaching distance of the spit. “No. No, not since…” She leaned back against his chest, let him take her weight, and frowned. “Not since before the masque, really, though I sometimes wake early and perform it just for the pleasure of the exercise.” She paused. “That seems odd, now that I’ve said it aloud.” 

“Hawke mentioned your control over the mark seems to have changed, as well.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then leaned his chin on it. “It would seem the more you practice your magic, the more control you have over it.” 

“Apparently.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, one she didn’t bother to hide. Cullen made a soothing noise into her hair, stroking his hands down her arms. 

“Vivienne mentioned you prefer not to use the spirit blade as much as she expected.” 

“It doesn’t actually have weight or heft to it, not like a real sword. I’ve also discovered through tricky trial and error and sparring with Cassandra in the field that if I wait and use the blade sparingly, I am better able to wield it when needed.” 

He didn’t like to think of her in danger. He knew, rationally, that she was much more exposed to the everyday fear and rush and risk of the fighting than him. To talk about it with her or her companions, however, left him feeling useless and uneasy. “I would offer to spar with you but you try to set me on fire.” 

She reached back and ruffled his hair, lightly, enjoying how the curls twined through and around her fingers, clinging. “You needed a swift kick in the ass, Commander.” Her grin was sly as she turned to bump noses with him. “And remember, my skills involve setting things on fire and running away.” 

“But you didn't run away,” he returned quietly and there was weight to his gaze, meaning to his words that he didn't speak. His voice dipped, wound itself around her heart and squeezed. “You are one of the strongest people I know.” 

Having her own words handed back to her, like a gift, was a rare and precious thing. So she offered him one in return. “I won’t go unless you turn me away, Cullen.” 

His stomach twisted even as he murmured her name, laid his lips softly over hers. When she made a quiet sound of pleasure against his mouth and turned to straddle his hips, Cullen pressed her back into the furs and covered her body with his, let himself fall into heat and light and the breathless wonder of being joined with incredible, beautiful, perfect Meera. Afterward, when she was boneless below him and he was panting and drowsy and their dinner was singed, he buried his face into the curve of her neck and thought, miserably, that she might not turn away but she could be taken, bartered, broken. Lost, just when he’d found her. 

Deep in the middle of the night, the Fade terror was not new but her touch and her warm, naked skin pressed to his back were, as was the little hint of magic she used to soothe his overheated skin. “I’m here, Cullen,” she whispered as he shivered in her arms. “I’m here.” 

Losing her would break him as nothing else ever had. 

OoO 

“Tell me more about your brother and sisters.” 

Cullen stretched, lazily, stifling a yawn into the bend of her elbow and appreciating her relaxed giggle, the way she curled into him, tangling her bare legs with his and snugging her nose into his neck. They’d made better time than he’d expected despite their easy pace and were camped now on the bank of the lake near his childhood home, the lucky coin he’d given her secured on a length of turquoise blue ribbon around her neck the only clothing either of them wore. 

“You just want to hear more stories about how much mischief we managed,” he teased, tugging lightly on the ends of her tumbled auburn hair. She giggled again and nipped his chin, scooting over to drape herself atop him. His hands settled naturally at her waist, fingertips barely brushing the smooth, firm curve of her bottom, and Meera wiggled experimentally, watching his eyes darken with a hazy sense of triumph. 

They had learned each other over the past sennight as they traveled, hidden pockets of things neither had expected. 

She was captivated by the ticklish spot she found along the arch of his instep, his earnest way of listening to her, head slightly cocked, fingertips constantly in motion, the mischievous and romantic boy hidden behind duty and honor who picked her flowers from the side of the road and coaxed her into a naked dip in a cold stream. He was charmed by the way she chewed on the inside of her lip when she was concentrating, her delight in all knowledge, no matter how trivial, the kind and serious girl who had never wanted power but wielded it with grace and courage. He was amused to find she was an early riser by necessity but not choice, grumpy with it until she had a strong cup of tea sweetened with honey. She despaired of his cheerful morning attitude and need for some sort of physical activity until they recognized that both of their needs could be met if he eased her out of the Fade with languid kisses and indulgent caresses. 

Relaxed but complicated discussions exposed they had both come to a middle ground where mages and Templars were concerned. She told him, passionately, about her hope for Leliana as Divine, true change in the Chantry, and for Cassandra to lead the Seekers. He listened patiently, told her his own thoughts, particularly that the mixed military unit of Templars and mages they’d begun was a template he’d like to see the next Divine encourage. When he mentioned healers’ clinics with Templar support, her spring eyes ignited like a thousand candles. “That’s a wonderful idea, Cullen!” He lost her for an hour that evening after supper while she made furious notes in the bound leather journal he'd given her, muttering to herself. He watched fondly, offering occasional suggestions when she would stop and look blankly about. 

He told her, a little, about Kirkwall, how Meredith had kept decisions from him she’d known were wrong. The sadness and regret in his eyes had been painful when he’d said, softly, “I never thought to question her, until it was too late.” 

“Don’t let me become her,” she whispered back and he pulled her close. 

“You could never,” he returned with conviction, his faith unwavering. 

The night terrors, he discovered to his dismay, did not come only for him. They clung to each other, sometimes, when horror and pain rose up and tried to swallow them. “Redcliffe,” she would gasp out. “Demon,” he would return, shuddering. _Haven_ went unsaid between them. 

As she rose above him, the coin brushed her collarbone, glinting dully in the magelight she’d conjured, and he stilled, shaking his head. “Meera. Wait.” 

Her look was part incredulous, part hurt as she started to slide away. He pulled her back resolutely, hands firm on her hips. “For a moment. I have something else for you.” He felt his eyes nearly roll back in his head when she raised an eyebrow and slid her warm, wet sex along the length of his half-hard cock. “Naughty, distracting woman,” he groused playfully, swatting her lightly on the ass, groaning when the sound she made was interested rather than hurt, her wiggle the worst kind of temptation. “Sweetheart,” he growled, sitting up abruptly and reaching blindly to the side for his pack. 

She huffed and crossed her legs to sit next to him. “This better be worth…holy Maker.” 

The object he pressed into her hand was shaped like a potion bottle, no adornments on its sturdy glass, stoppered securely with silver wax, and glowing. Glowing brighter still as it touched her skin, the malevolent red glow emanating from it overtaking the soft green of her magelight and Meera nearly bobbled the disgusting, terrible thing as her gaze whipped to Cullen’s face. “What have you done?” she managed, choking on the words, on the memories, a slice to her palm, the slow drip of her blood, cowering in fear and pain and rage, the chanted words and the hurried agreement that yes, of course Bann Trevelyan could have the phylactery of his only daughter, the Circle was happy to oblige such an important man. 

“Given you back your life.” He said it so simply, with such great care, that Meera could only sit and stare at her phylactery, stunned and humbled and afraid. He let her have her moment, identifying the look on her face as one he found on his own when he contemplated a philter of lyrium, the life he’d left behind. 

“How?” she managed finally. _Why_ , she wanted to ask, but didn’t. 

“Hawke.” At her skeptical exclamation, he raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, after what you did for her, she’s more than half in love with you.” His light tone was at odds with his true feelings on what Meera, Leliana, Cassandra, and Bull had done for Anders. A new identity, false papers, smuggling him into Orlais where a few of the remaining Seekers would attempt to sever him from the spirit of Vengeance that inhabited his body; if it had been Meredith, he thought he might have let her twist in the wind with her guilt and her madness forever. 

“But…he just gave it to her?” 

He wanted to tell her yes, to be able to say her father had relented, that he cared, that he wasn’t the monster she’d built up in her mind or in her heart. But he knew he owed her the truth. “The Champion of Kirkwall acting as emissary for the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall and the Commander of the Inquisition carries weight, but no, he did not. He gave it to Hawke for a significant amount of coin.” And under the very real threat of bodily harm since it was Hawke, but that had been why he’d entrusted the errand to her. 

“My father has plenty of coin, Cullen. I’m sure he was willing to take yours but…” She sighed, the little bottle clutched in her fist, her knuckles white with strain. “What did the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall and the Commander of the Inquisition promise him?” 

He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. “I implied that I, as a Templar and as a military leader, planned to use the phylactery in much the same way he did. Which, of course, was a lie but one he accepted.” 

Meera had no feelings for the bottle. It was her blood, her pain, a lock she'd already broken, a tie to the past that had shaped her but that she no longer had to let define her. It was her heart, too, somehow, a part of it she'd thought buried in Ostwick. “It's yours.” 

“What?” Cullen accepted the glass and silver vessel automatically, puzzled and slightly alarmed by her stillness, by the way her Cupid's bow mouth quirked up in the corner, somewhere between joy and sorrow. 

“Wear it around your neck, smash it to bits, lock it in a cupboard to gather dust.” She curled his fingers around the vial, lifted them to her lips and brushed a tender kiss over his knuckles. “Use it to find me if ever I'm lost. Whatever you do with it, Cullen, I know you'll never use it to hurt me.” She touched the coin around her neck with her free hand. “You've given me a piece of your past. Let me give you this piece of mine.” 

His hands trembled as he returned the phylactery to his pack, as he skimmed his hands over her hair, her shoulders, her back, unsteady and drowning. Her name, just that, is all he could say, over and over, from hushed whisper to throaty plea to hoarse shout. 

In the night, it wasn't demons or memories that woke them but a ghost, a too-thin woman with dirty copper hair, strong, handsome features, and blood seeping from a dozen wounds as she stumbled into their camp, disturbing the wards and defenses they'd set. It was Cullen who recognized her, who went to her and knelt, his sword clattering from his hand. “Your Majesty!” 

Aalish Theirin, the Hero and Queen of Ferelden, turned sapphire eyes clouded with pain from Cullen to Meera, noting the flickering green light in the other woman's left palm, and grimaced. “Inquisitor. I had hoped to meet the woman dallying with my husband under better circumstances.” 


	19. Threnodies 7.11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threnodies 7.11:  
>  _The work of man and woman,_  
>  _By hubris of their making._  
>  _The sorrow a blight unbearable._

Pain was not a new thing to the Hero and Queen of Ferelden. She’d lost almost all of her family, gathered an army, executed two traitors, ended a Blight, killed an Archdemon, married her prince, become Queen, given birth to twins; her life, it would seem, had been steeped in blood. She had never, however, been quite as close to death as she’d been when she’d stumbled into the Inquisitor’s camp. 

Or at least she assumed that was the case, as the girl had been waking her with painful and frustrating regularity until finally what little patience she had, and it had never been much, snapped. The next time the girl reached out and shook her, Aalish grabbed the girl’s wrist and said, flatly, “Touch me one more time, little girl, and see what happens.” 

“Oh, thank the Maker,” the girl muttered, sitting down and scrubbing her hands over her face. When she looked at Aalish again, there was a bone-deep weariness that made her look older than Aalish knew her to be, older but not harder, a softness in her gorgeous, bloodshot green eyes that Aalish knew had never been in her own blue. When Aalish attempted to sit up, the girl ignored her bark of warning and helped, tucking the fur more closely around her, offering her a waterskin and some dried druffalo jerky from a pack nearby which Aalish accepted with a grimace. 

“If you can keep some of the water and the jerky down, we’ll see about something more substantial.” Aalish nodded, resigned, and took a cautious sip. Obviously approving, the girl moved away and checked the fire, resetting a log with the toe of her boot and using a little magic to spread the flames more evenly. 

“Where did your lover go?” Aalish asked after a long beat of silence. She watched as the Herald reached up and pressed a hand over the small white disc hanging around her neck on a bit of ribbon much as she often found herself clutching the ring that hung on a chain around her own neck. Ah, yes, definitely lovers, and new with it, as the girl blushed a bit as she settled herself across from Aalish, legs curled under her. 

“Scouting and hunting. We thought it best to stay vigilant, though you do not appear to have been followed, and fresh meat will help you regain your strength.” The girl’s face moved into worry, smooth brow wrinkling, pretty eyes clouding. “You were…you have been in and out of the Fade for nearly a day and a half.” 

“Ah, almost dead then. Wonderful. At least I wasn’t all dead, I suppose.” Aalish heard the echo of her husband in her voice, Alistair’s easy affability and self-deprecating wit one of the many things she missed about home while she was in exile. A Queen without a country, a woman without her mate, a mother without her children. Oh, Maker, she missed her children, missed her home, missed her life. 

“No. No, not all dead. You did have a head injury, though, which is why I kept waking you.” 

“Oh.” They shared a look, blue eyes to green, and Aalish sighed. “How much trouble have I made for you?” 

“Only as much as your husband or your brother,” the girl said ruefully but with a small smile, tilting her interesting face into sweetness. Had she ever been this young or this earnest or this sincere, Aalish wondered? Was the Inquisitor? “Your Majesty, I only recently spoke with Leliana regarding reaching out to you for help. I am…she seemed to be under the impression you were…” The girl frowned, clearly at a loss, and tried again. “Why are you here?” 

There were a thousand and one ways Aalish could have answered the question. “I want to go home,” slipped out before she could recall it. It resonated with the girl, she saw, but her troubled green eyes didn’t clear. She seemed to gather herself to ask something difficult, her lips slightly pursing, and Aalish wondered if this was going to be a question she couldn’t answer. 

When had her life become all secrets? 

“Are you hearing the Calling?” 

Not just any secret but a Grey Warden secret, a painful one that even now bubbled and boiled under Aalish’s skin, to think of leaving her children without a mother or a father, even less time with Alistair. Her fists clenched in her lap before she could stop them, the stiffening of her spine causing a quick arc of white-hot, needle-sharp pain down her legs. The girl reached out and laid a small hand on Aalish’s knee, a gentle wash of warmth easing the ache of blood and bone. “No. No, I am not. I know…” She paused and eyed the girl, heaved another sigh. “Inquisitor, can we two be honest here?” 

The girl laughed. She actually laughed, a quick, half-strangled sound, and shook her head. “My name is Meera. And no, I suspect we cannot be honest because you’re a Queen and I’m the Inquisitor.” 

“Aalish.” The girl, no, _Meera_ , quirked an auburn brow in a gesture Aalish recognized and it was Aalish’s turn to laugh, a long, wheezing sound. “My name is Aalish. And you’re Meera. And we can speak of whatever we like.” 

Meera liked Alistair Theirin, the King of Ferelden. When he wrote to her, he would speak of his wife, of her bravery and her calm and her blunt honesty. She also liked Leliana and had seen the wistful, soft look in her spymaster’s eyes when she’d spoken of her friend, the Hero of Ferelden. It was Kieran, the boy with the King’s nose, his protective mother with the beautiful, sad, lonely yellow eyes, and Cullen, his face ashen as he’d stared down at the Queen and who’d fled with a mumbled excuse about needing to reset their defenses and find food when he’d known she was going to live, that gave Meera pause. There were so many questions Meera wanted to ask, and only a handful that really mattered. Aalish’s slender, callused, tapered fingers sliding over her own were a surprise, as was the calm, easy, persuasive smile Aalish flashed, sapphire eyes bright and pleading. “Meera. Let me be your friend. I hear, from a pretty bird, that you are a lovely one.” 

_She collects broken people and tends them so carefully, her garden of misfits. She reminds me of another woman I know who carried a heavy burden and did not bend under its weight._

The Hero of Ferelden opened a door. The Herald of Andraste stepped through. 

OoO 

“She saved me.” 

It was late, Aalish curled in furs before the fire, clean and fed and resting, Meera paging through a book under a conjured magelight in their tent. She looked up at Cullen and waited, patiently. He’d been like a caged lion, growling and snapping, since he’d returned to camp to find her and Aalish sitting companionably together before the fire, cautious allies if not quite friends. They would be, Meera suspected, eventually, though Aalish would always be discomfited by an army so near her kingdom and by the easy friendship Meera had with her husband. The Queen of Ferelden, she suspected with some indulgent amusement, didn’t share well. 

He said it again, quietly, less a sharp staccato burst and this time with some shame, and Meera stroked her hand up his back as he sank down and pulled her into the curve of his arm. “At Kinloch. She and Leliana and the King and one of the Senior Enchanters of the Circle, Wynne. Aalish and Alistair were just Grey Wardens, then, wanted by the Regent, and yet they came and she saved us and what she could of the Circle.” He rested his chin atop her head and shuddered out a breath, leaning into her soothing touch. “I told her to kill everyone and she looked at me and said she would never let innocents die if she could prevent it.” 

“Now I’ve saved her.” Meera tilted back a little until she could smile up at him, until she could cup his cheek, feeling the scratch of his stubble against the palm of her hand, could see his troubled, haunted amber eyes. “And you’re not that man anymore, Cullen.” 

He pressed a kiss to her lips, then laid his cheek against hers, pulling her over until she was snuggled into the cradle of his thighs. “When you say it, I believe it.” 

OoO 

Cullen and Meera took longer to return to Skyhold than they’d taken to leave. They escorted Aalish to Dennet’s farm in Redcliffe, secured her supplies, a horse to get her to the capitol, and the secrecy of Dennet’s family, then meandered their way home. For both, time was precious, trickling away with each league beneath their horses’ hooves. They both knew Adamant was looming, that when they arrived in Skyhold they would return to the roles set for them, Inquisitor and Commander, roles that would keep them apart even as they worked together to end Corypheus. And both of them would be in danger. 

So they lingered, made camp early, broke camp late, stopped to enjoy a particularly pretty glade or stream or farmhouse. One afternoon, as they leaned companionably on a fencepost near just such a freehold, Meera murmured, “I could live just like this.” 

“As a farmer’s wife?” 

“Mmmm,” she agreed, tipping her head onto his shoulder. “The crops blowing in the breeze, the kitchen garden with herbs for cooking and for medicines, the baying of the hound as the druffalo came in from the cold and the crow of the rooster waking me at dawn.” What she didn’t add was she pictured him there with her, scraping mud from his boots, his hands chilly as he scooped up their child from the floor and hoisted the babe high in the air, as she turned from baking bread or making a poultice to laugh with them, her belly full with another. It was a dream she’d had a thousand times in the Circle, one she’d kept close to her heart when she was dreaming through a lecture or measuring in the cold room or sitting in the garden letting the sun bathe her face. A simpler life, children to hold, a house to tend, a man to love, magic a gift and not a burden. That the faceless husband now had curly blonde hair and mischievous amber eyes and a scar bisecting his upper lip only made it more appealing. 

He glanced down to find her hand pressed to her stomach, her face dreamy and wistful and a little sad, and his heart stumbled. He’d never dreamed of being a farmer, of tilling the land as his family had done for generations, of a wife waiting for him at home or working beside him or giving him children; he’d dreamed of swords and duty and honor and glory. Looking at her now, the Inquisitor and the Herald who fought demons and Venatori and red Templars without blinking and yet wished for home and hearth, he wondered when his own dreams had shifted to meet hers, if she knew how much he hoped that someday when this was done, if it was ever done, they could have their own home and hearth. And a baby with tumbled golden hair and eyes as pure as spring. 

The thought chased him all the way to Skyhold. Curled together in her quarters the night before they planned to leave for Adamant, still thinking about it, Cullen murmured, “Vivienne told me that you take herbs.” Meera reared back and gave him a puzzled look, and he fumbled to explain. “To prevent…to stop…so we can…” He made a gesture toward the bed below them and then from her body, still flushed and soft from his attentions, and his own, still damp with sweat. 

Meera’s belly clenched, a hard, dangerous ache, and she squeezed her eyes closed for just a moment on his sincere, beautiful face. “Yes. It is required of all mages in the Circle.” 

“But you haven’t…I mean…you aren’t in a Circle. Now.” He felt like a fool, fumbling through the questions, when what he wanted to say was how beautiful she would look carrying their baby, how much he’d been thinking about creating one over the last few days when he was inside of her. How he wished they weren’t in the middle of a war and that if she were with child it would only put her in more danger, leave him more worried and anxious when she was away from Skyhold, but oh how much he wanted it, to know a part of him was nestled safe and snug in her belly. 

All Meera heard in his voice, all she saw when she opened her eyes, was concern and regret, a fear that she would ruin all of their careful planning by giving in to her girlish, fanciful, naive heart. She didn’t see hope or love, only duty. Her voice, then, was cold and formal. “Adan helped me in Haven. Once we reached Skyhold, Leliana found someone who could supply them. If you are worried, I also know how to brew a potion to …” 

“Stop.” He knew what the potion did. He had seen it. He had administered it, in fact, one hot summer’s day, to Bethany Hawke, and held her hair back while she retched and bled the possibility of a babe into the squalor of the Gallows. He suspected her sister didn’t know what Bethany had asked of him, how she’d confided in him that she’d been thoughtless with young Keran, that they both knew there was no future in it for them, how she’d begged him not to lecture Keran who only wanted human touch as much as she. Meredith had refused, he’d been told by the seneschal when he asked later, to supply the herbs to the female mages, sure that they would use them as an excuse to continue their sinful, lascivious ways. “It gives them freedom, Knight-Captain, a freedom they don’t deserve.” 

It was Hawke’s friend Aveline, Captain of the Kirkwall Guard, who helped Cullen find a reliable supplier. It was Bethany who distributed the herbs to her fellow mages. It was Keran who came, wretched and wounded, to Cullen’s office and asked if being a Templar was really worth it. It was Cullen who bore the weight of knowing Keran and Bethany might have been happy, in another life, and welcomed the child they might have created. 

“It was a thoughtless question,” he managed, Bethany’s dark brown hair replaced by Meera’s auburn in his hands, a vision of the purest magic they could make between them bleeding into the gutter. “Forgive me.” 

Stilled by the pain in his eyes, by the worry that pulled his brows together, Meera sank down against him and smoothed her hand over his chest, unsure and wary. “It’s all right.” 

They slept uneasily together, so many words unsaid between them, both dreaming of pretty babies and the battle looming and an uncertain future. 

OoO 

He fought in her wake, blood and bone and sinew, harrying the enemy as they tried to follow her through the courtyard and onto the battlements. The Grey Warden friend of Hawke's, Stroud, who had volunteered to go with her, gave Cullen a terse, knowing nod as he pelted after Meera's quickly retreating figure, Dorian and Sera at her side and Cassandra at the front. They were light and flame and focus, a beacon that quickly moved beyond him as his world became hack, slash, parry, dodge, shield slam. The elite vanguard around him included the mage and Templar unit they'd created together, spell purges and holy smites intermingling with walls of ice and bright bursts of fire, there a Warden clawing at his face in horror, here a demon wailing as holy energy burst from its gaping maw. Still, the numbers of the enemy were staggering, a great host of Grey Wardens determined to defeat the threat of another Blight, and the demons they’d summoned with the blood of their fellows. 

They fought and they bled and the general chaos of battle reminded Cullen too much of the final confrontation with Meredith in Kirkwall where good men and women had died needlessly. When he and his contingent burst into a courtyard, he was pleased to find Bull, Krem, and the Chargers guarding a group of Wardens who'd surrendered. “She promised,” one of the men babbled, tears streaming from his face. “She promised.” 

He didn't need to ask who'd promised. 

He sent Varric and Harding and a group of scouts to harry the enemy from the battlements Meera and her companions had taken, a shout from Hawke heard over the din as the last one fell to the Inquisition. A glimpse of a rift opening and a flash of fire told him Meera had found Hawke; one more person he trusted at her back was welcome. Blackwall, Vivienne, Cole, and Solas fell back at his signal to help hold the outer bailey and the gate, Solas pausing to press his hands to the cracked skull of a Templar, her partner thanking him with the quick flash of a bloodied smile. 

A scream made him look up, the long, ululating shriek of the dragon, as enormous, terrifying and horrible as it had been in Haven, and he was seized by the stark, terrible fear that once again, Meera would be asked to sacrifice herself to save them. It landed on a high tower, black and menacing against the night sky, and Cullen called a charge, his voice overly loud in the sudden hushed stillness. There was little resistance as they pushed up and through and around, Cullen and his troops breathing hard, not bothering to conserve their strength as they labored to reach the Inquisitor. Electricity arced through the air, the tang of ozone sharp and harsh at the back of his throat as it smashed into the dragon who roared its defiance and shot a burst of scarlet crystal flames. It wasn’t Meera’s magic, he didn’t think, and remembered that Warden-Commander Clarel was a mage. 

“Fuck!” The curse exploded out of him before he could recall it, the harsh sounds of battle and the low, rumbling snarl of a Pride demon echoing from the stone. They weren’t going to make it in time to help; he could see the flashes of magic, saw a pillar of light that had to be Cassandra, heard her hoarse, taunting scream, and then the dragon bellowed and rose gracefully into the sky, wheeling about, and Cullen had just enough presence of mind left to call for shield cover before the air was burning, crystals tinkling around them like hissing, snapping rain. 

Meera, her face desperate and determined, her armor singed and blood trickling down her temple, turned to him just as he and his troops barreled around the corner, her voice hoarse but strong: “Stay, Commander. Help them…they’ve surrendered. I have to…” And she was gone, chasing after Clarel and the mad Tevinter Erimond, the dragon circling lazily in the sky as Meera moved up and up and around and around, Dorian, Sera, Cassandra, Hawke, and Stroud in her wake, and Cullen dropped his head, dizzy and sick and afraid. 

The explosion rocked the whole fortress. 

There would be no babies, Cullen thought hazily, falling to his knees as he met the terrified glance of the young Templar next to him. Quinn. The boy’s name was Quinn and he was crying, fat, hot, wet drops trickling through the blood and dirt and soot on his young, grieving face. No babies and no future and no love, no hope. It was over. 

Her phylactery lay cold against his heart. 


	20. Transfigurations 1.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers in this chapter: Mentions of rape, non-con, both female and male aggressors, and the killing of animals.
> 
> Transfigurations 1.1:  
>  _These truths the Maker has revealed to me:_  
>  _As there is but one world,_  
>  _One life, one death, there is_  
>  _But one god, and He is our Maker._  
>  _They are sinners, who have given their love_  
>  _To false gods._

Magic was shite. _Meera_ wasn’t shite, and Dorian was okay even if Solas was an arse, all elfy and stupid and prissy, and Vivienne was just _scary_ but in that way like a grandmother or maybe an aunt who wasn't sure she liked you or maybe wanted to turn you into a toad but _magic_ was wrong and bad and people died. Okay, so maybe she liked it when the bad people died even if they died screaming as they burned or were skewered by an arrow or their head was lopped off by a sword, but still. Magic. Ugh. 

Vaguely, Sera realized Stroud was talking and Meera was responding and Dorian was muttering to himself, but all Sera heard was Stroud say, “I believe we are in the Fade,” and she wanted to scream. Really fucking loudly. So she did. 

“Shitballs. Fuck, shit, crap. Fade, shit, arse, demons, crap!” 

Cassandra and Hawke stepped forward to take point, Dorian and Stroud in the middle, and Sera scowled and kicked away a rock that bounced up into the sky instead of across the ground. “Urhg!” she managed, and nearly shrugged away from the hand Meera laid on her shoulder. 

Sera was in love with Meera. Not like, you know, romantic kissy-faced in love although fuck the girl had the most amazing arse but she did love her and want to make her happy and she, Sera, liked that she, Meera, wasn’t afraid to take a piss out of someone like Captain tight-arse even if they were doing the dirty but fuck if she wanted to follow her into the Maker-damned _Fade_! 

“I don’t want to be here, either,” Meera admitted, and Sera had said that whole part out loud because even Stroud was chuckling and the stupid git never cracked a smile, ever, fucking piss arse. At least Warden Blackwall was _funny_. “But Sera, we’re alive.” 

“We hope,” Dorian added mock-cheerfully and Sera groaned, leaning over until she was half-draped on Meera as they trudged along. Meera’s arm slid around her and Sera liked that so she left it there and maybe her own wandered around Meera's very nicely made hips. 

Until there were spiders. Or at least, that’s what Meera said they were. To Sera, it felt like _nothing_ was biting and scratching and…and _hissing_! And of course, Meera had to start touching things, pointy things and weird mirrors and spirits popped out offering to give blessings or some shite and while Sera loved doing weird fun mad tricks, the Fade was not weird or fun but just shite. Shite, utter, utter, stinking, rotten, fucking _shite_. And Justinia! Divine Justinia, all glowy and weird and telling them ‘don’t go into the light’. 

Okay, so maybe she’d made that part up and it was good, if painful and awful, to watch Meera’s face turn closer and closer to bone with every new memory demon they killed, every new memory demon which let Meera, and all the friggin’ rest of them, know what had really happened at the Conclave. So what if it had been the Divine and not Andraste who saved Meera? Wasn't the Divine like, she didn't know, the _avatar_ of the Maker and his dead wife? And so what if the stupid anchor was because Coryphebutt made a mistake, they knew that already, so who gave a flying flaming crap? Meera was Meera and Inquisitor and she cared about the little people and that was enough for Sera, Maker damn them all to the Fade _when she wasn't fucking in it!_

Then some arsehole demon started _talking_ to them and that was the absolute end, done, over, no friggin’ way. Sera sat right down in what was maybe, probably, who the shite knew what the blighted crap it was but it was wet, crossed her arms, and shook her head. 

“No.” 

She felt slightly mollified, and oooo, big word, when Hawke plopped right down next to her and dropped her forehead onto Sera's shoulder. Hawke, pointy armor bits and big sword and Maker's hairy arsecheeks those legs for fucking ever, didn't bother with useless stupid words, just added a heartfelt, “Shit.” 

Cassandra and Meera exchanged a glance. Sera ignored it, ignored it harder when Dorian groaned and Stroud marched up and whispered something urgently into Meera's ear. “Stop it, you pisser,” Sera muttered and felt rather than heard the exhale of air as Hawke chuckled, stirring the short hair at the back of her neck in a tickly sort of way. 

Meera, though, Meera looked at Stroud. And she looked at Cassandra and Dorian and at Hawke. And then she looked at Sera, really looked at Sera, and she said, so very quietly that Sera had to strain to hear her but Maker take the silly bitch, she heard her, “Don't be a tosser, Sera.” 

Meera _got_ Sera and wasn't that the fucking end of the world? Balls. Sera let Hawke haul her to her feet. They kept moving, this time with Stroud and Cassandra in the lead, Hawke and Sera in the middle, and Dorian and Meera bringing up the rear. 

The next time the not somethings brushed into her legs, Sera screamed and jumped back as far as she could go which was pretty friggin’ far and glared daggers at Meera even as her arrows and a jar of bees reduced the nothing-thing-butt to ash. “Meera Evelyn Trevelyan, you are the most stupid, fucking, shite-arse _cunt_! The Maker-fucking _Fade_!” 

Stroud watched the girl, the Inquisitor, the holy Herald who was blessed despite, or maybe because of, who had rescued her at the Conclave, laugh, laugh until tears ran down her cheeks, those glorious eyes of hers red-rimmed and weary and amused and brimming with affection as the skinny elf girl threw herself into the Herald’s arms and laughed with her, and had to stalk away before he made a complete and utter fool of himself. 

OoO 

Time always moved strangely in the Fade. Though they stopped some to rest, to regroup, to press a makeshift bandage to a wound, there was no sun or moon or clouds by which to mark the passage of time, no way of knowing if they had been battling through the fear demon’s lair for days or weeks or only a handful of moments. No food and only a little water was a problem until it occurred to Dorian, who had to gently remind a befuddled Meera, that they were in the _Fade,_ from which they drew all of their magic. After, she was able to bind her companions in gossamer threads of her healing magic, increasing the trickles as necessary to beat back the sharpest edge of the fatigue and the hunger and the pain. What she didn't say but she suspected Cassandra and Dorian knew was that being behind the Veil made her grasp of her abilities tenuous, slippery, and if she weren't incredibly careful, the web she'd spun could leave them hopelessly, and permanently, tangled. 

Though she needed no lyrium, her spirit was flagging and she felt like at any moment she could be swept under. 

Adamant had been...ugly. Oh, Maker, the despair on Clarel's face when she realized she'd been betrayed as she'd betrayed her oaths, thrown about like a rag doll in the dragon's mouth, bones and blood and her innards scattered around her like wreckage even as she used her last bit of breath and magic and life to try to save them. Tumbling into the air, the way Cullen had stood, silent and still as she ordered him to stay behind, his eyes haunted, his mouth compressed into a thin, tight line, her Commander and her lover, the rift ripping through the air, falling into the sky, cold sick dread and guilt as she realized she'd led them physically into the Fade. 

A Fade where a spirit wearing Divine Justinia’s face offered to be their guide. A Fade littered with the detritus of her life in Ostwick. 

_Did you think the Fade had forgotten, little dragon?_

At first, she managed to shrug aside the voice. It taunted but it taunted aloud; it was hard to be intimated or feel small or weak when Sera taunted right back, Cass was calm, still water, Dorian scoffed, Hawke was cheerfully rude, and Stroud remained uncomplaining. Though her belly roiled and churned and her eyes wanted to water, she managed to hold it together until the first memory seared into her skull. The others saw what had happened to her and Most Holy after the explosion at the Conclave and while Meera felt that memory like a spike in her skull, she also heard, and experienced, something much more sinister. 

_Remember. Remember when your brothers ripped the head from your pet bird who sang so pretty in its cage only for you, when they threw the sack of kittens into the river, when they drowned the mabari runt, all rather than let you have something to love. Remember, sweet little lonely girl, remember._

Meera didn't remember because despite the lack of affection and understanding between her and her brothers, there had never been cruelty of that magnitude. But she _felt_ it, _saw_ it as if it had happened, as if her brothers had been so terrible as to take the life of several tiny, defenseless creatures simply to make her weep. Tiny eyes closed forever, sweet, soft little bodies limp and cold, her heart shattered, temper and tears. 

She clutched at a true memory, of Hayder's sweet affection for his hunting bird, how he coddled and spoiled the silly thing with treats until she would sit tamely on his arm for hours, how Wendell had smuggled first a kitten and then a mutt into the kitchens, bribing the maids with his service as pot boy to keep them quiet, had let her pet them both when she caught them curled up together in a heap by the bread oven. Stroud’s hand was welcome on her shoulder, his voice joining with Meera’s: “I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.” 

The spirit of the Divine bowed her head and disappeared, the scent of incense and Andraste’s Grace lingering in her wake. 

OoO 

Meera had been introduced to Divine Justinia at the Conclave. When she and the First Enchanter of her Circle arrived at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Divine herself had been greeting guests at the door of the Chantry, her smile genial and distant. 

Meera dropped immediately into a curtsey with a reverent, “Most Holy.” The startled look she received from the Divine’s retinue puzzled her until she saw they were looking askance at the staff strapped across her back. It was ceremonial, something the First Enchanter had asked her to wear to show solidarity with the few remaining members of her Circle; it only occurred to her in that moment that it also marked her as separate from the faithful in their sunburst robes. 

“Child,” Justinia returned, her voice lyrical and kind but her silver eyes already looking past Meera to the group behind her. “Rise, please. We are all equal here, mages and faithful alike.” 

“Can we not be both a mage and faithful?” Meera asked pertly before she could check the impulse. Everyone drew in a breath save Meera and the Divine as Meera rose, slowly, to her feet. Meera managed, barely, not to flinch as a thin, bony fingertip angled up her chin and sharp, calculating, and shrewd silver eyes studied her face. Though it went against the teachings of a lifetime, Meera let her face relax, let her faith fill her eyes, let it soften the curve of her mouth, and was rewarded by Justinia’s official smile easing into speculation and the hint of interest. 

“Do you know why we come here, mage?” Justinia’s touch was cool and dry on Meera’s chin as she pinched it between forefinger and thumb, the Divine’s pale eyes seering and searching. Meera shivered lightly though the sun was shining and her robes were thick. 

“For peace, Your Grace,” Meera returned by rote, stung when Justinia frowned and released her chin, deliberately turning away. 

Facing the spirit inhabiting Divine Justinia’s skin for a second time here in the Fade, the spirit who thus far had guided them without fail, Meera said something different: “From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring.” 

_Passing out of the world, in that Void shall they wander; o unrepentant, faithless, treacherous. She died so that you might live, Meera Trevelyan. Abomination. Maleficar. Accursed one. Did you think the Fade had forgotten, as you have forgotten?_

_Remember. Remember the Circle, remember the Templar who caught you in the library after curfew, who took you to his fellows and laughed as they stripped you, as they took turns fondling your tits and your ass, as they made you suck their cocks and spurted their seed onto your body. Remember, apprentice, the shame of it, the fear, the_ thrill _._

There had been a rape in the Ostwick Circle. Meera knew only because the young man, for it had been a male apprentice caught alone in the cellars by several female Templars, had flung himself from a tower window the day after Meera arrived. Two days later the female Templars, all young recruits who insisted he'd wanted it as he'd gotten hard and even came, after all, were publicly reprimanded and quietly reassigned. 

The rape had not happened to her but the dishonor, the shame and helplessness of it _felt_ real, the Templar leers, their jests about her nice bouncy tits and fat little ass, the harsh, continuous scrubbing with a rough cloth until her skin was red and raw to remove their tainted, filthy, disgusting touch, the horror that some part of her, deep inside, craved the depravity, had taken sexual pleasure in it. She clung to the stunned wonder in Cullen's eyes the first time he'd touched her skin, clung to the knowledge that he had been the first in every way, his hoarse whispers of _mine, mine, mine_ grounding and pure and perfect. 

Thinking of Cullen had been a mistake. 

_Remember. Remember his fantasies, his desires, his twisted, sick lusts. Remember the mage he fucked in the Circle of Ferelden, remember how he dreams of her, night after night. Remember, deluded, laughable woman, remember how he doesn't, can't, won't love you._

Stroud caught her as she swayed. His bark of her name had her straightening, pressing her palms hard to her temples to shut out the hateful, slithering voice. The Grey Warden's hands were surprisingly gentle on her shoulders as she fought not to scream and she flashed him a pathetic, grateful look when he murmured, “Take a moment, _ma foi._ ” 

OoO 

In the little graveyard, Sera kicked her headstone, Cass stalked stiffly away, Hawke sat on hers with an eye roll, and Dorian shook his head mournfully at the lack of embellishment on his, but Meera simply stood, transfixed, before Solas's. 

_Family_ was a word that had weight and meaning for Meera, as much and more as the word _love_. She used neither of them lightly and, until the Inquisition, had never appreciated just how much she craved both, how many of her daydreams centered around their necessity: true friends who accepted her with affection and gratitude, whom she could in turn tend and coddle and care for, a man who not only wanted her in his bed but as his partner, who appreciated and needed her interests and her knowledge and even her magic, whom she could in turn honor and cherish and respect, children she would kiss and spoil and shower with the love she'd missed as a child, children whom she could teach to dream and wish and encourage to be exactly who, and what, they wanted. 

The headstone, Solas's headstone that could have been hers, said _Dying Alone_ and was grief and misery and loss, the lack in her that made her unlovable, broken and vulnerable and wrong. She didn’t realize she’d fallen to her knees until a hand was hauling her to her feet, a voice stern but encouraging at her ear, “Get up.” 

She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut, tried to force back the leading edge of despair. “I can’t do this,” she whispered and felt Stroud's hands tighten on her elbows, imagined she felt his lips brush the crown of her head. That couldn't be right; Stroud barely tolerated her on a good day. 

“Heal yourself,” he returned implacably. 

She tilted her chin up and tried to glare at his high-handed order but he shook her, lightly, though his eyes, the softest grey ringed by crystal grace blue, were mild, and his voice turned impossibly tender, his Orlesian accent thickening, his voice dipping into a lower register. “ _Ma foi,_ do not be foolish. You are expending all of your energy to keep the rest of us moving. You _must_ heal yourself. You are making yourself more open to the demon’s influence.” 

Stroud watched the girl struggle with herself, struggle to disregard his advice and he almost shook her again out of sheer frustration and embarrassment. He was old enough to be her father, old enough to know better, old enough that the lecture the stern red-headed spymaster had delivered should not have been necessary, but the feelings were there, anyway, inside of him, curled warm and soft at the bottom of a soul he'd thought emptied out long ago. He was a Grey Warden, had been a Grey Warden for longer than she'd been alive, had lived the Grey Warden words of “in War, Victory, in Peace, Vigilance, in Death, Sacrifice” to all but the latter, had buried his family, four lovers, and countless friends. Yet here he stood, barking orders and aching to gather her up into his arms to comfort them both with kisses and softly whispered promises. 

He knew the moment she made the decision to defy him, knew because her lovely mouth grew mulish and her eyes darkened as she tried to step away. _Stupid_ he reminded himself but he captured her hands and angled his body so that he was suddenly surrounding her, an almost but not quite embrace. When her lips parted on a surprised gasp and her little pink tongue licked them nervously until they were slick and shiny and her eyes grew huge and wide in her pale face, he muffled a groan and started to lean in. 

“Mimi, I think Hawke is bleeding!” Dorian called suddenly, and Stroud cursed under his breath as she automatically turned toward Hawke with a sound of distress. 

He managed a stern, “We are all depending on you,” that had her eyes narrowing but, he noted with grim satisfaction, her healing glow surrounded both she and Hawke when she reached the other woman’s side. He managed a full breath and this time, couldn’t contain the groan. Her scent lingered, spicy tea and old parchment and something soft and feminine. A prickle ran across his skin and he closed his eyes. 

He could pinpoint the exact moment he’d started thinking of Meera as something other than an annoying little girl with too much power and not enough sense, her breakdown in Crestwood still fresh enough to grate on already raw nerves. They were standing side by side in the Western Approach before Erimond as the Tevinter expounded gleefully on the mad plot to use a demon army to march on the Deep Roads. Stroud had felt her small, curvy body nearly vibrating with emotion next to him as Erimond scorned Clarel and the Grey Wardens, as Erimond taunted her that the mark on her hand had come from his master, as he forced her to her knees with the same malevolent red energy he’d used to take the Warden’s minds. Stroud had been sure she was done, had been sure he was about to see what little hope he had to save his fellows destroyed, had nearly closed his eyes and welcomed whatever ignoble death was coming. 

Something, some flicker of movement, had drawn his attention to Meera, however, her face calm and serene as she rose elegantly to her feet, lifted her left hand, the mark bursting into life with the crackle and hiss of veilfire, and _pulled_. The harsh flash of green light, the overwhelming roar of it, nearly blinded Stroud and he had to lift his arm to cover his face briefly, staggering back. When he managed to blink them open, Erimond had tumbled to the ground and she was glaring fiercely at him, those eerie green eyes of hers defiant and burning, burning with power, with rage, with some strong, nebulous emotion for which he had no name but that slid neatly between his ribs and coiled viciously around his heart. He’d drawn his sword before he was even aware of the motion, and heard her whisper, low and sweet, “They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods.” 

Faith. The emotion was faith, _she_ was faith, made flesh, and as she fought the taken Wardens and their pet demons at his side like a virago, he understood why men had fought and bled and died for Andraste: he would gladly sin in the service, in the _loving_ , of such a woman. 

How Clarel would have laughed to know he was having such soft, romantic feelings for the Herald, Clarel who had been his friend before his superior officer, his lover for a handful of good years, and then his enemy across a line he’d never believed she’d be willing to cross. He had been unable to accept her reasoning for killing innocent Grey Wardens to raise a demon army. Ending the Blights forever was a lofty aim, but he had never, could never, grasp that they needed demons and maleficars and abominations in order to accomplish it. Now Clarel was dead, the Grey Wardens in disgrace, and he was panting like a lovesick boy after the leader of an army who held the future of his order in the palms of her small, capable hands. 

“ _Merde._ ” 

OoO 

“We need to clear a path!” Stroud's shout was nearly lost as the demon chittered, ichor dripping from its fangs, and started toward them. A spider the size of a dragon. Meera would have giggled at the absurdity if it hadn't been blocking the rift that was their escape from the Fade. Behind her, she heard Cassandra murmuring prayers and Dorian and Sera swearing creatively. On either side of her, Stroud and Hawke eyed the demon and each other. A sense of terrible inevitability began to steal through Meera's limbs, making them heavy, her heart a slow, thunderous tattoo in chest. 

“Go. I'll cover you.” Hawke's voice was hoarse and gritty from shouting, her beautiful face set in a scowl. Stroud, however, shook his head. 

“No. You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must -” 

Hawke turned on him, viciously. “A Warden must help them rebuild! That's _your_ job!” Meera flinched as Hawke hefted her sword and shield and muttered darkly, “Corypheus is mine.” 

The demon stalked closer, its movements somehow eerily, threateningly graceful, and only Sera's hand on her back kept Meera from simply turning tail and running deeper into the Fade. There _had_ to be another way, another way out, another way to escape. No, no, no, she would not make this choice. They could not ask her to make such a choice! 

Except, as she turned anguished, dry eyes on Stroud, she could see in his face and posture that he had already made the decision for her. Her voice was small and broken over his name, her hand reaching out to him before she could check the impulse. He grasped it, brought it to his lips. “Inquisitor. It has been an honor.” 

She made a pathetic sort of chuffing sound, shaking her head in fierce denial, mouthing his name again, his true name, “Jean-Marc,” and something in Stroud's handsome face broke, shattered into pieces, leaving his feelings naked and unashamed, easily read. She must have made some sort of movement toward him for he groaned, shoved a hand into her hair, yanked her against him, and covered her mouth with his. 

The kiss was tender, his lips and mustache a pleasurable rasp against her skin, the leather of his glove cold as he cupped her cheek with his free hand. When he released her, she saw herself reflected in the depths of his beautiful eyes, saw herself as he saw her, proud and strong and faithful and worth dying for. 

“They who are judged and found wanting shall know forever the loss of the Maker’s love. Only our Lady shall weep for them,” he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. Meera closed her eyes, battled down the grief and the tears and the aching sense of regret, her fingertips trailing over his back, releasing him as he stepped away, as he smiled, a quick flash of white in the frame of his mustache, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ _Ma foi._ Live for me. _”_

OoO 

She asked the Grey Wardens to serve and she made plans to send Hawke away to their fortress in Weisshaupt but she did not weep for him, for the man, for the hero, she had abandoned. 

For the man, for the hero, who had loved her. 

For the man, for the hero, who had called her _ma foi_. 

My faith. 


	21. Solomon 8.6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solomon 8.6:  
>  _Set me as a seal upon your heart,_  
>  _as a seal upon your arm,_  
>  _for love is strong as death,_  
>  _jealousy is fierce as the grave._  
>  _Its flashes are flashes of fire,_  
>  _the very flame of the Maker._

The argument had spiraled out of control. Meera knew they both recognized it, Cullen as he stalked away from her with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, she as she stood stiff and unmoved next to the makeshift war table, the echo of their angry words still ringing on the air. 

She was tempted, tempted almost beyond endurance, to go to him, to wrap herself around him, to let him take the weight and the responsibility and the pain off her shoulders. Oh, Maker, the pain, the guilt, Stroud left behind in the Fade, Sera decamping with the earliest sets of scouts with dark circles under her eyes and mutiny in her mouth, Dorian cold and distant even with a confused Bull, Varric’s quiet, inexorable sympathy as he turned her away from Cassandra’s tent, Hawke’s muttered, sullen conversation but hard, anxious hugs. And Cullen, beloved, proud, strong Cullen, shaking her like a rag doll, her phylactery bouncing against his chest on its leather thong, glowing bright as the sun at her nearness, his voice hoarse and grim, “You can’t go! I forbid it!” 

They’d avoided each other neatly and not completely by choice for the whole of a day and part of another since she’d fallen out of the Fade, facing each other now across the war table only because neither of them had been able to find something else that needed their attention. Any moment, the rest of the advisors should arrive because there were plans to be made and yet, yet, they stared at each other across the wedge of what had happened in the Fade: what Meera wouldn’t say and what Cullen was too afraid to ask. 

Couldn’t he see she _had_ to go? She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t watch them dismantle Adamant and the Wardens piece by piece, couldn’t bear the shame as another Grey Warden praised Stroud’s bravery, couldn’t face her people, her beloved Inquisition, after she’d forced them to accept maleficars and blood mages into their ranks because she refused, _refused_ , to let the order to which Stroud had pledged his life disappear. 

A lifetime of being obedient, the huge, depthless well inside of her that loved Cullen desperately, the part of her that believed he would never love her if she didn’t please him, _my little dragon_ , wanted to soothe and promise and submit. The Inquisitor in her, the woman who had grown out of the child she’d been, the bird breaking free of its cage, the independent, powerful mage who had lost too much in the Fade, rose up and swallowed her whole as he said, flatly, “You will return with us to Skyhold.” 

“You will not dictate to me when and where I may go.” Her voice wanted to waver, tried to dip, and Meera let fire lick into her palm, let her magic flare into being with a muted roar that had Cullen flinching back from her, his hand going to the pommel of his sword. Dark satisfaction squeezed around Meera’s heart, the heavy beat of her pulse filing her ears, rage a burning, scorching thing as it battled with faith and love and hope. “You may warm my bed when it suits you, you may ply me with sweet words and soft kisses and trips into the countryside, but I am not some helpless apprentice to bow and scrape and submit to a _Templar._ ” She said the last like a curse, let her power fill up her face, and nearly shrieked when his hands shot out and grabbed her by her upper arms, dragging her up and onto her toes until they were nearly nose to nose. 

Fear. Fear crawled across Meera’s lovely face, into her beautiful eyes, and Cullen nearly dropped her, the fury that had been riding him since she’d stumbled out of the Fade bloodied and pale and fierce suddenly draining away to leave him with only the terror, the bone-deep, chilling certainty that she’d been dead, lost to him forever, beyond his reach. And she just wanted to _leave_ him after that, wanted to pack up Cole and Blackwall and Bull and go chasing after dragons and on some diplomatic mission for Empress Celene and he _needed_ her, needed to hold her and touch her and love her, to be sure she was here and safe and whole. So he shook her again when he knew he shouldn’t, shook her and snarled, “Don’t be foolish, _Inquisitor._ You are in no condition to be anything but a danger to any party you take into the field.” 

He was right. She knew he was, knew she was likely to get someone else killed, most likely herself, if she hared off half-cocked and half-wild but she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t, she was going to break, she was going to scream, she was going to explode, and he still couldn’t say he loved her, hadn’t tried to make what was between them less cheap or sordid or twisted, and so she shoved him back with her magic. Or tried. 

Cullen reacted instinctively to the surge of power, his quickly cast silence causing her to gasp and clench her eyes closed as she went limp in his grasp, but he used the momentum of her mind blast to shove them both back a couple of steps, ignoring the sharp starbust of pain in his hip as it connected with the corner of the war table. “What the void, Meera?” he ground out, steadying them both as best he could. “We use what we are against each other now?” 

“Hypocrite,” she hissed in return, trying to twist out of his grasp, feeling tears welling up behind her eyes as he simply tightened his grip and shifted his stance so her boots couldn’t connect with his shins. “You can’t keep me here against my will!” When his eyes narrowed to slits in warning, she all but shouted in his face, “Maker damn you, Cullen Rutherford, I have to go! You have to let me _go!”_

“I can’t!” he thundered back, his handsome face contorting, his hands on her shoulders bruising and painful, his eyes wild and dark and sharp as a blade. “I can’t, you stupid woman, because I love you! I love you and you can’t fucking _leave_ me again!” 

Meera stared in mute, blank shock when he released her abruptly, when he raked a hand through his hair and collapsed back against the table, his hair sticking up in whorls and spikes, the curls trying to break free, somehow making him look younger and more vulnerable. “Oh, Maker, Meera. _Maker._ I thought you were dead!” He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut as he scraped his palms over his face, fighting to rein in his voice as she flinched back from the accusatory sharpness. “I thought you were dead, and I didn’t think I had the strength to keep moving, to keep fighting and planning and praying when you were…when everything I love in this world was gone.” She stumbled back from him, her own hand coming up to curl around the little white disc hanging around her neck when his eyes, haunted and bleak and agonized, lifted to hers, his voice a rusty whisper, “I thought you were dead and I wished I were dead, too.” 

It was what she wanted, what she’d ached, hoped, needed to hear since he’d taken her innocence so sweetly at the Winter Palace. Faced with Cullen’s heartfelt, sincere, miserable declaration, all she could hear, all she could see, was Stroud rushing headlong to his death because he _loved her_. She shook her head at Cullen, violently, when he started toward her, softness and shame and love, oh, Maker, love shining out of his eyes, and she had to go, right now, out, she needed air, she couldn’t breathe, she was going to be sick. “I can’t … I _can’t_ …” 

She fled. 

He didn’t go after her, partly out of pride, partly out of duty, but mostly because he’d seen both the despairing need and overwhelming panic in her eyes. Instead, he went in search of Cassandra. Varric, surprisingly enough, let him into the tent without even a word of warning but he did lay a hand, lightly, on Cullen’s back after kissing the top of Cassandra’s head. When he made to leave and Cassandra’s breath hitched, Cullen said, quietly, “Stay, Varric.” 

The dwarf paused, frowning, but couldn’t say no to Cassandra’s softly murmured, “Please,” or the hand she held out to him, so he sank down next to her onto their bedroll, sliding his arm around her back and letting her lean on him. As he took a seat himself, Cullen noted a waxy sheen to Cassandra’s olive complexion and a defensiveness in her posture, her chocolate eyes clouded and dark. 

“We could hear you shouting from here,” Varric said without preamble and without his usual snark when it appeared neither Cullen nor Cassandra were going to start the discussion. He wasn’t convinced this was what his Cassie needed right now; she’d been alternately sleeping or meditating since she’d returned, only her constant need for his hand in hers convincing Varric that she would, eventually, be okay. Cassandra made a snort somewhere between her usual amusement and pained agreement to his remark and Varric rubbed small, soft circles on her back as Cullen stared down at his hands. 

“What happened in the Fade was…very hard for her,” Cassandra added after a time, her voice soft and husky. She cleared her throat and tipped her head onto Varric’s shoulder, leaning into his touch, breathing in his scent, stone and musk and ale. If she concentrated, she fancied she could smell her own preferred lavender on his skin, too, and clung to that so she didn’t have to think of Stroud or Meera or the spiders that, for her, had not been spiders at all. 

“I told her I loved her,” Cullen said at last. Varric sucked air through his teeth, Cassandra grimaced, and Cullen’s stomach knotted. He’d been afraid he’d made a tactical error by telling her, by spilling his heart at her feet, that the words had sent her running 

Words that had stayed too long locked inside him. 

“So did Stroud,” Cassandra murmured rawly. “And then he told her to live for him as he sacrificed himself for our escape.” 

Cullen would not have considered himself a jealous man. He suspected part of that was two-fold: one, he could count on one hand the number of lovers he'd had over the course of his lifetime including Meera and two, he had never been in love before. Certainly he'd cared for the women who'd shared his bed, had enjoyed their company and their conversation and their bodies but before Meera, Cullen’s heart had remained committed to duty and to the Chantry. 

It was during the trip to Ferelden that he'd come to understood how significant it was that he had started marking time in a new way, as ‘before Meera’ and ‘after Meera’. Dreaming of her full and round with his baby, however, realizing he was planning a future with her that had little and less to do with her holiness or the Inquisition or his service coupled with the abject despair of feeling her phylactery go cold and dark against his skin had cemented the knowing within him that she was his and he was hers. To hear that a man he’d trusted, that he’d admired, had been lusting after _his_ woman was enough to have Cullen grinding out a flat, “No,” before he could call it back. Jealousy writhed and churned in his belly, constricting his nerves until he felt like he was a watch wound extra tight. 

“Oh, man, Curly. I don’t even know what to say here. That _never_ happens.” Varric’s voice was wry, his look all sympathy. Loving someone who was just beyond your reach even when they were sitting right next to you, he got that. The soft brush of Cassandra’s lips on his cheek reminded him that his truth was different now and he squeezed his arm around her. 

“She wants to…to _leave_ , go haring off after dragons and bears and some mad holdouts of Gaspard's army in the Dales. Leave, after…” Cullen had never sounded so forlorn to his own ears. “Maker's breath.” He sighed, dropping his face into his hands. 

“She needs to go.” At Cullen’s anguished, frustrated glance, Cassandra sighed and reached out to him, took his hand. Varric looked incredibly pleased by the contact. “Meera is built for martyrdom. Ask her to sacrifice herself so that the Inquisition might survive and she will do it without hesitation. Ask her to sacrifice someone else, however, and she will balk and do everything in her power to change course.” 

“And fuck up an alliance in the process,” Varric added which earned him a small smile from Cassandra and a grunt from Cullen. Krem and the Chargers and Bull had more than repaid that debt, to everyone’s satisfaction. “Cassie is right, though. Meera leads with her heart and her faith. Stroud managed to punch her right in both, gave her the ol’ one two.” 

“He called her _ma foi_ ,” Cassandra explained at Cullen’s blank look. 

Cullen cursed, softly, and scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. 

Orlesian was a required course of study in the Chantry among the rank and file, more so if there were hopes of being more than just a lackey, and Cullen had high hopes, indeed. He also, he’d discovered, had a decent gift for languages, and he knew, exactly, the high compliment Stroud had paid Meera. _My faith_ was a fairly rare, old-fashioned Orlesian endearment, meant to compare the receiver to both Andraste and to recall the Song of Songs, the beautiful love poetry between the Maker and Andraste 

The love poetry Meera had once quoted so innocently and wickedly to him in a letter, of kisses like wine and a love as strong as death. 

He nearly choked, bile like acid at the back of his throat. Stroud had called her my faith and Cullen had cursed at her and forbidden her to leave in the same breath he told her he loved her, acting more like a Templar than when he’d actually been a part of the Order. 

There was no comfort from either Varric or Cassandra except her strong, lean, callused hand in Cullen’s and the rustle of her clothing as Varric continued to rub her back. 

OoO 

Something was very wrong. 

Meera’s hands were clenched until her knuckles were white with strain, her lips were compressed into a tight, thin line, her face as cold and emotionless as she had ever been in Haven as she strode stiffly into the war council pavilion at dusk. The light in her eyes was dull and flickered weakly and when Josephine made a move toward her, it was Cullen who stopped her, his own mouth firm and uncompromising, his eyes infinitely weary. 

The inquisitor, for this sharp, forbidding woman before them was not soft, warm Meera Trevelyan, laid out their next steps, her tone and her stance brooking no argument. “The Chargers will stay to clean up here per Krem’s suggestion. Leliana, Hawke is to be given a good, sturdy mount that can handle the long road to Weisshaupt as well as provisions and coin enough to make it there. The Wardens have chosen who will accompany her and claim to have enough mounts and supplies of their own. The rest will be returning with us to Skyhold, though I think it prudent to make room for them in a more out of the way place than the Keep. Josephine, if you will please handle the arrangements.” 

She paused to take a breath, her eyes closing briefly, the high spots of color in her cheeks fading abruptly to milk paleness. When they blinked open, they skated past Cullen to rest somewhere over his left shoulder, bleak and old and resolute. “Bull, Cole, and Blackwall will be leaving with me at first light. We have work to finish in the Western Approach and then we plan to come back through the Exalted Plains to assist Empress Celene.” Cullen blanched and turned away but made no protest. 

Leliana nodded imperceptibly to Josephine’s panicked look, goosebumps chasing themselves up her arms. 

Something was very wrong. 

OoO 

It took Bull from mid-day to nearly sunrise to wring the last bit of the Fade from his lover and then only after enduring his cold, indifferent silences and cornering him near the healers’ pavilion, using brute strength and a quick jab to Dorian’s pride to drag him into their tent. There were harsh, angry words, quick flashes of magic, the sounds of flesh slapping flesh, and in the end, Dorian was curled against Bull’s side, drained and spent, the bruises and love bites clear along his back and thighs even in the cool darkness of their tent, his face buried into the curve of Bull’s neck. Bull murmured, “ _Kadan_ ,” and let Dorian’s tears cleanse them both. 

Once the tears had passed into soft, drowsy contentment, Bull asked, with his usual dry delivery, “Will I have to fuck it out of the boss, too?” 

Dorian chuckled and pressed a kiss to the mass of scars under Bull’s ruined eye, sliding over until he was sprawled elegantly on the expansive chest, chin propped on his hands. “Cullen probably won’t, stupid man. But he also doesn’t share.” 

Bull tickled Dorian’s sides, lightly, enjoying the way the more slender man wriggled and pouted. “Yeah, he probably wouldn’t like if I stripped her naked and spanked her. Damn, and she is a redhead.” 

“Beast.” Dorian’s voice was fond, the once teasing epithet now a much-used endearment, meaning the same thing to them both as Bull’s less-used but as heartfelt _kadan_. He sighed, though, and peered thoughtfully down at the Qunari. “Bull, she’s so fragile and he loves her…differently than you and I do. More innocently.” 

“I don’t think that’s completely true. Have you seen the way he leers at her ass? And her tits.” Bull leered comically and had Dorian rolling his eyes and poking him in the side with a little bit of electricity added, making Bull jump and growl and dig his nails into the sensitive, and still pink, skin of Dorian’s lower back. 

“Be serious, you Qunari bastard,” Dorian finally admonished once he’d managed to speak over the low whimper that had escaped his throat. His spirit was oh so willing but his body was oh so unable. Bull’s smirk was nearly unbearable. Asshole. “You’re going out into the field with her. If sex with her delectable self is off the table, what can we do instead?” 

_We._ It was a word that Bull had lived under his entire life. In the Qun, the voices of the few were silenced in the needs of the many, and until the Chargers, until the Inquisition, until _Dorian_ , the word ‘we’ meant what was best under the Qun. Sure, he played fast and loose with it all sometimes because what was life without fun (there had been reasons he’d visited the reeducators so long ago) but with Dorian…well. The Chargers had made The Iron Bull out of Hissrad, Meera had made a grateful tal-vashoth out of Iron Bull, and Dorian, scarred, irreverent, earnest Tevinter magister Dorian, had made Bull into one half of a couple, into a man who appreciated that sometimes, the bonds of love and family were the best, and most honest, definition of ‘we’. 

Aware he’d been quiet enough that Dorian was looking at him oddly, Bull coughed and shook the thoughts away, though the warmth filling the pit of his stomach stayed. “I’d say I could fight it out of her but she already said we’re going after a dragon.” He paused, frowned. “Y’know, last time we went after a dragon on purpose it was because she was mad at Cullen.” 

“Good for you, bad for her. And Cullen, I suppose, though he keeps hurting her this way and maybe I’ll strip _him_ naked and spank him.” 

“I think it was the other way ‘round this time, Dorian. And he doesn’t swing our way.” They shared a look of perfect accord and regret for half a moment before Bull said, finally, “I can’t fuck it out of her, can’t fight it out of her, she can’t hold her liquor…fuckin’ shit, I’m gonna have to talk it out of her.” 

All sympathy, Dorian pressed open-mouthed kisses over Bull’s face, scratching lightly at the extra sensitive skin where his horns protruded, enjoying the way Bull’s eyes slid to half-mast as he groaned, lazily, with pleasure. “My poor guy, have to use that tiny little mind of yours to make the Inquisitor want to come back and ride Cullen until he screams for mercy.” The slap to Dorian’s ass was not unexpected and exceptionally pleasant. Dorian wiggled and licked Bull’s chin. “I’ll keep him occupied and just this side of pathetic until she returns.” 

It was always a wicked thrill to be reminded how strong his lover was as Bull flipped their positions, pressing him deep into their furs with his heavily muscled body, careful of his horns as he nuzzled and licked at Dorian’s collarbone. Dorian groaned appreciatively as he arched up and rubbed himself against Bull’s thicker, tougher skin, enjoying the pleasant rasp, the hitch in Bull’s breath as Dorian used another tickle of electricity down the Qunari's spine. 

Just as Bull prepared to slip down his suddenly very much capable and incredibly interested body, Dorian grasped his horns and said, sternly, “Don’t do something stupid like die you big lummox. I'd be very cross with you.” 

“As you wish, _kadan_ ,” Bull murmured against his thigh but his eye was serious and dark and full of promises as he rolled it up toward Dorian, and Dorian relaxed back into the pillows, crossing his arms under his head and pointing his chin with a soft, knowing smirk, 

“Well, then, get on with it. Haven’t got all day.” 

This time, Bull breathed his acquiescence over Dorian’s tight, swollen skin, and after that, the silence was broken only by Dorian’s pleading, pleasured moans. 

OoO 

The morning sun set fire to the red in Meera's hair where she sat atop Shartan, the big bay unusually restless, his rider's mood causing him to dance in place. Her face was closed and set as Josephine rose on tiptoe to press a lingering, if chaste, kiss to Blackwall's mouth, Dorian handed a small jar to Bull who laughed and shook his head, Cole stared down at the horse beneath him as if unsure how it had gotten there, and Cullen stood, tense and grim, arms folded. He had not, as she had half hoped, come to her in the night, and her own pride and fear kept her from reaching out to him. 

Once everyone was mounted and the goodbyes over, Meera turned Shartan away from camp, her heart a heavy weight in her chest. Cullen caught the bridle, however, as she made to move past him and looked up at her for a long, tense moment. His jaw worked, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and impatience, until finally, he said only, “Come back,” and let go. 

As she rode away from him in the center of the column, protected in the front by Blackwall and on each flank by Cole and Iron Bull, he murmured again, “Come back,” and then, heartfelt and pained, he repeated it again, from the bottom of his soul, “Come back to me.” 


	22. Transfigurations 12.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transfigurations 12.2:  
>  _O Creator, see me kneel:_  
>  _For I walk only where You would bid me_  
>  _Stand only in places You have blessed_  
>  _Sing only the words You place in my throat._

_Inquisitor,_

_We have finished the final building project in the Western Approach as you requested. Knight-Captain Rylen reported you healed one of his men after a darkspawn attack. Were you out amongst them during construction? Please be careful. You are very important to all of us._

_Sincerely,_

_-C.P._

OoO 

_Forgive me, sweetheart._

_-C._

OoO 

_Inquisitor,_

_I have received a reply from the Hero of Ferelden. Please find the missive enclosed along with a small token of her regard. Further, if it is not too much to ask, could you spare me a moment when you return? I have heard you spoke with a spirit that took the form of Divine Justinia. I imagine you can understand why this would be of interest to me._

_The Commander asked I include the following duty roster for you to approve._

_Regards,_

_-L._

OoO 

_I know you have to be away. It feels too far this time._

_-C._

OoO 

_Darling,_

_Fiona and I have had the most delightful idea! We think it would be wonderful to hold a monthly salon in the new tower you’ve built where we could discuss new ideas, new techniques, even perhaps invite those interesting tutors Josephine found for you. We would love for you to join us when you return. Perhaps we could be treated to a demonstration of your version of the Trial of Swords? Commander Cullen has been teaching it to the mage/Templar unit with laudable success._

_With warmest feelings,_

_-V._

OoO 

_Would you have looked at me, I wonder, if we had been in the same Circle tower? Would I have looked at you?_

_Come home, Meera, and let me look at you now._

_-C._

OoO 

_Dearheart,_

_I miss you like the burning of a thousand suns. Particularly the sun on the coast because it is snowing here and have I mentioned how much I hate how cold it is? I’m freezing my manly bits away. Bull will be cross. Also, I drank all the Rowan’s Rose. Do you think King Alistair the Dreamy would be kind enough to send me…I mean you, of course…more?_

_Don’t let the big guy die on you. And watch out for his bad knee. He favors his left side, or so Cullen tells me._

_No, I will not tell you how he’s doing. You’re being incredibly cruel to him, you know. Wherever did you learn such tactics?_

_(It’s working. He’s miserable. He asked me to play chess with him and let me win without pointing out I was cheating. I think he might be sleeping with your pillow.)_

_With love and freezing toes,_

_-D._

OoO 

_It has been more hours and days and weeks than I care to count since I have touched your skin, kissed your lips, held your body against mine, under mine, heard you cry out as you came apart for me._

_Think of me._

_-C._

OoO 

_Princess,_

_Curly is going nuts over here. What did you_ do?!? _He left Cassie with bruises. Bruises! Don’t think I won’t hold you responsible._

_Also, shit. A lot of it. Come home._

_-V._

OoO 

_I wear your phylactery against my heart. I take your letters out every evening and reread them. It is not the same._

_I need you, sweetheart._

_-C._

OoO 

_Sweets,_

_Did you know Krem and Scout Harding are doing the business?!?!_

_Dwarf butts are awesome. I get why Creamy is all over it. Rowr._

_Cully-Wully brought me cake. CAKE! Stop being a butt or I’ll have to do worse than bees._

_BEEEEEEESSSS and BUUUUUUUTTTTS. Here, have some._

_Bring me home a present._

_-R.J.S._

OoO 

_Let me help. Let me hold you. Let me love you._

_Please._

_-C._

OoO 

_Lady Trevelyan,_

_Enclosed, please find the list of recent marriage proposals. One has come from the Avvar chieftain who claimed redheaded wives are always trouble, which is amusing. I believe he was quite taken with you! He offered five sheep, ten sheaves of wheat, and twenty goats. Twenty! This is a fortune._

_Commander Cullen said we had no place to house the goats. He was not smiling. I do not think he was impressed with the Avvar’s offer._

_When can we expect you to return? I have a contingent of Ferelden nobles here requesting to meet with you. They claim the Queen has returned to their homeland and sent them. Arl Teagan Guerrin, especially, is most insistent._

_Felicitations,_

_-J_ . 

OoO 

_I’ve chased Sera around the Keep for bees in the training dummy she knows I use, I’ve had a lecture from Dorian twice a day and extra on Sunday, I actually trounced Cassandra in a practice bout, and Varric tells me I should write you poetry. Solas isn’t speaking to me, Vivienne offered to teach me to dance, and Josephine and Leliana claim I just need to beg a little more._

_This punishment is beyond my sin, sweetheart. Save me._

_-C._

OoO 

_Friend,_

_I may reach you before this letter and if so, I apologize for my haste but not for my hope. I understand you are moving into the Exalted Plains and that is where, I believe, my friend is being held. I will take your offer of help in this matter and gladly._

_Thank you for walking the Fade with me, intentional or not._

_-S._

OoO 

“ _The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!_

_Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,_

_Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,_

_Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!_

_Faded the flower and all its budded charms,_

_Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,_

_Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,_

_Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –_

_Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,_

_When the dusk holiday – or holinight_

_Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave_

_The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,_

_But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,_

_He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.”_

_-C._

OoO 

Jim, the scout who had been assigned to work directly for Cullen, and Lead Scout Harding, who had just returned from the Exalted Plains, were having a drink in the Skyhold tavern, Harding's face morose and dejected, Jim's tired and harassed. The bartender. Cabot, eyed them balefully for a moment and then, grumbling under his breath about stupid questions, asked, “What the void's eating the two of you?” 

“The Commander,” Jim said while at the same moment Harding grumbled, 

“Her Worship.” 

Gossip. Excellent. Cabot pretended to clean the bar as Harding and Jim eyed each other. It was Harding who gave in. “She’s pissed at him.” 

“He’s frustrated with her,” Jim returned promptly. They obviously weren’t sure whether to be loyal or to sing like birds. Cabot poured them both another drink, whiskey for Harding, ale for Jim, making sympathetic noises. He felt bad, briefly, for pushing Jim; he was the poor, unfortunate soul who had interrupted the fabled first kiss. 

He was already not Cullen's favorite person. 

“Hard to work for royalty,” he encouraged and nearly rubbed his hands together in glee when they sighed in unison, Harding propping her elbow on the bar and her chin on her fist and Jim rolling his expressive eyes as he took a big swig of ale. 

“Lady Trevelyan decided she's going to run roughshod over Celene and Gaspard's troops and Paragons forbid anyone, like me, give her advice.” Jim rubbed a hand on Harding's shoulder in commiseration and she patted his knee. “What did big, blonde, and studly do?” 

This teased a guffaw out of Jim. “Well, part of it was the bees.” 

“Sera,” both Cabot and Harding chorused and Jim grimaced. 

“Probably. She certainly hid fast enough when the Commander went bellowing around the Keep for her, muttering about little girls who needed a spanking.” 

“He'd rather be spanking the Boss,” Krem supplied, slipping onto the stool next to Harding who immediately brightened and leaned in for the kiss Krem was happy to supply, Jim and Cabot sharing a grin at the easy affection between the big Vint and the little dwarf. “Hey, Lace, my girl,” Krem murmured and flicked her nose with a finger. She scrunched it and swatted at him. 

“Cream puff,” she returned and had everyone chuckling as Krem's ears turned red. 

“Oh, my poor guy. Give him a drink, Cabot, so he can drown his sorrows.” 

Cabot poured the tankard of sour red wine Krem preferred and threw caution to the wind, leaning in. “So, the Commander and the Inquisitor had a fight...” 

“Right,” Krem agreed. “From what Dorian told me, Cullen acted like a right arse and told her to keep her butt at home.” 

Harding rolled her eyes while Krem waggled his eyebrows and Jim grumped, “Well, she shouldn't have run off half-wild.” 

“No, probably not.” Krem tugged until Harding was half-leaning against his side so he could prop his chin on her head. She slid her arm around his waist and hmmed. 

“That explains a lot. She wasn't even listening to Bull or Blackwall after she dismissed me with one of those regal head things she does.” Harding giggled as she tried to imitate the Inquisitor’s haughty tilt of the head. “Even poor Cole got the short end of her temper, something about being creepy.” 

“Bet that made the Chief laugh.” 

“Yeah.” There was a lull in the conversation and Cabot tried to think of some subtle way to encourage them to keep talking. He knew all of this already; Skyhold had been abuzz since the Inquisitor had hied off into the wilds while the Commander came home to brood. A tavernkeep made his living not from only selling his wares but also from trading in gossip. For Skyhold, there was nothing better than a new tale of their Inquisitor and her Commander. 

Varric had even offered him a percentage of royalties if he could gather information Varric himself didn’t have. 

“The Commander is having Fade terrors again. Bad ones.” Jim hunched down as three pairs of eyes swung in his direction. “Caught him twice now staring at one of them little bottles of lyrium and another time sleeping at his desk. He was…” Jim swallowed. He had a lot of respect for the Commander, for his easy laugh and even temper and old-fashioned Chantry manners, and perhaps it was wrong of him to carry tales but if the Inquisitor loved the Commander half as much as she said, she should know what was happening. Since Jim couldn’t very well send her a raven, Krem or Harding possibly could. “He was telling her he’d take the lyrium, he’d kill the dragon, he’d do whatever she wanted, just not to leave him alone.” 

Harding and Krem shared a long, poignant look as Cabot discreetly moved away. There was gossip and then there were private things that happened between a man and a woman and should stay there. The story about the bees would be enough. 

“I can go back.” Krem made a noise of displeasure but nodded when Harding tilted her face up to his. 

“Yeah, that might be best. Boss likes you.” 

“Too late,” Sera sang cheerfully as she swung onto a free barstool, sparing a quick grin for Cabot who was already sliding a tankard her way. “Poncy elf Solas already left with a promise to the Seeker that he'd send our girl home.” She tipped her head back and laughed, high and slightly wild, and winked broadly at Krem who smiled cautiously back. “Don't be so worried, Creamy, Cully-Wully is too busy hidin' in his tower to know.” 

“Know what?” Jim asked suspiciously. He grunted when Sera slapped him on the back companionably and cackled again. 

“That Solas is gonna send her back with her breeches on fire.” 

There, Cabot thought with infinite smugness, was an even better story than the bees. 

OoO 

Before this trip, Bull had never before considered Meera reckless, reckless to the point of madness, until she’d calmly and methodically set out traps for a dragon and then stood in the middle of them without even a barrier to protect herself. When the dragon landed and she rushed it headlong with a flickering blade made from the Fade and a howl that was feral and jagged, only Blackwall’s shouted challenge, Bull’s headlong rush, and Cole’s spinning, slashing attack from the rear with both daggers kept her from being swallowed whole, a feast for an enraged abyssal dragon. Afterward, when Blackwall tried to chide her gently for her behavior, she’d simply stalked away from him, back straight, eyes wintry cold. Even the simpering Orlesian who’d hatched the harebrained scheme had been dismayed when, instead of the excited, breathless retelling of the fight he expected, he received flat, toneless orders to report to Skyhold at once. “My seneschal will find you something useful to do.” 

She set a breakneck, dizzying speed through the rest of the Western Approach, including through a demon-infested lair of ‘Vints that had to be hundreds or thousands of years old, everyone within frozen in time by a spell gone awry. Meera, her face completely devoid of expression as Cole cowered in the corner, Blackwall fumed, and Bull’s stomach twisted in dread, plucked out the staff holding it all in stasis and laughed, _laughed_ , as sound and light and magic exploded in the courtyard outside. “What a lovely weapon,” she purred, her voice not quite her own, and for a sick moment Bull wondered if Meera had been overtaken by a demon, if the Fade had done more damage than anyone suspected. 

She sought out fights: nests of varghests, phoenix, quillbacks, several caverns full of spiders, even a band of raiders were no match for her need to burn, blast, rend, and tear. Where before battle often left her sick or tired or withdrawn, now she rushed in and out of the thick of it with something like glee, the shadows under her eyes growing apace with the frequency of the muffled crying from her tent at night and the slick, jittery shaking of Cole’s hands as he tried to shut her out of his consciousness. “Hurting, hurts, her song is jagged, rough, scraping, painful.” 

Discovering the darkspawn and the second pit of toxic gas, the first having been cleared before taking Griffon Wing Keep and therefore before Adamant, had left her party with the faint hope that they would get a rest until the Inquisition could send supplies to build more bridges but she’d just looked at them blandly and declared, “Rifts,” and off they went again. Back in a few days just in time to meet up with the Inquisition engineers and Knight-Captain Rylen, she’d waved Bull and Blackwall and Cole off to rest while she dived into the plans and the building and even, under extreme protest from everyone including the scandalized Inquisition members themselves, put herself on sentry duty for their camp. 

They were grateful for her help when the darkspawn attacked, filled with wild stories of their Herald flickering in and out of the Fade as she harried and mocked and eventually destroyed the few hurlocks that had broken through, as she dressed and stitched and healed wounds, her hands steady, her face porcelain pale and beautiful, her eyes beacons of light in the darkness. 

“What horseshit,” Blackwall grumbled as they packed up to clear out a well and hunt down the source of the darkspawn. The fight with the giant proved that the tales of her ability to Fade step weren’t tales at all and it was Cole who was grateful for her healing as blood spilled sluggishly from a wound in his shoulder where the giant’s club had found purchase. They sealed up the darkspawn entrance, killed the ‘Vints, and when everyone else would have voted to at least stop in Griffon Wing Keep for a decent hot meal, she insisted they could make the Exalted Plains by morning. 

She was swaying in her saddle with fatigue by then but rather than rest, she dismissed a confused and hurt Harding with a flick of her fingers and demanded Gaspard and Celene’s troops stand down in the face of impossible demonic odds even as she ruthlessly and efficiently rid rampart after rampart of undead, her scorn for the Orlesians cold and clear. 

They were now approaching a camp of Dalish elves and Bull feared the consequences if she continued to behave in such an erratic, bloodthirsty manner. 

She was burning herself out and it was agonizing to watch. 

“Boss? You need a break?” 

Cole shook his head quickly at Bull when Meera made no answer, worry easy to read on his long, pale face. Blackwall made a hand motion which had Bull nodding and the boy and the Warden moved their mounts farther up the path as Bull carefully maneuvered Shartan and his rider into the underbrush. Meera bared her teeth at him in a display of aggression that would have made his Qunari heart sing if it hadn’t been hurting so much for her. Giving her no time to react, her magic and temper no match for his years of training and experience, he slid from his mount, yanked her from hers, and shoved her face-forward into a tree, neatly caging her slender wrists in one of his huge hands above her head. 

He respected that she didn’t cry out, didn’t try to reach for her magic, only hissed, “Hands off, you Qunari bastard,” as she tried to buck him off. Amused despite himself at her wriggles, he pressed the thumb of his free hand firmly into the lower part of her spine, a pressure point that rendered her nearly immobile. She made a pained sound as her legs and arms went limp, only his thumb and his grasp on her wrists keeping her completely upright, and Bull had to fight a mighty battle not to apologize. Apologies and platitudes weren’t what she needed. 

“I’m done with your tantrum now, Boss,” he said calmly, increasing the pressure of his thumb and stretching her arms higher above her head when she tried to turn and sink her teeth into his bicep. She growled in the back of her throat and Bull leaned forward casually, letting his elbow sink into the back of her neck, suppressing a wince as the rough bark of the tree scraped her cheek and chin. “We’ve let you nearly get us all killed, let you shit all over the Orlesians, let you run away and hide from your feelings, but you gotta stop it now, kid. You’re acting like some _saarebas_ who needs a tighter leash.” 

“Fuck you, _Hissrad,_ and fuck your Qun,” she hissed at him, her mouth sneering at him defiantly and even as his stomach gave one hard, fast roll at his former title, he had to admire her stubbornness. Before, when he and the boys had joined up, she would have been too overwhelmed, too green and soft and frankly intimidated to spit in his face. Pride welled up in him, pride and affection, and so Bull dug down and tried to find the words she needed to hear. 

“I ever tell you how we pick leaders under the Qun?” When she remained stubbornly silent, he just sighed and rubbed his chin over the back of her head. “My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even from the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions…” He paused, paused until he felt her tremble, just a little, against him. “We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions _and live with the consequences_.” 

The sound she made was somewhere between a sob and a scream. 

“Meera.” He crooned her name and let his hand at her back spread out, let his thumb rub where it held her immobile. “You ain't special because of some mark on your hand or because you can set shit on fire. You're special because you _care_. You care about some beat up old Qunari with only one good eye and one good knee and one void of a lot of love for his crew. You care about an idiot ‘Vint with too much pride and not enough sense. You care about a city elf with mommy issues, about a spirit who wants to be a real boy, about a Seeker whose faith has been shaken, about a dwarf who's seen too much, about an elf who loves the old way more than he loves himself, about a bard who's forgotten her songs, an ambassador who works too hard and plays too little, a Grey Warden who isn’t sure where he fits, about a Grand Enchanter who doesn’t have a Circle.” 

“No,” she whispered, shame and need and sorrow tangling up inside of her. She knew what he was going to say next, knew who he was going to tell her she cared for and she couldn’t, she couldn’t care, she had to stop, caring was how they’d ended up here, she had to be stronger than this, braver than this, she had to _stop_. But Bull didn’t stop, he kept talking in that low, rough, sandpaper voice of his, dragging it over her skin and her stomach and her heart, the places she’d closed off and only opened at night, in the Fade, when she reached for Cullen. 

“You care about a man, a good man, who was tortured, who was just following orders, who looks at you and sees salvation and redemption and hope.” 

Cullen, whom she had rejected when he’d told her he loved her, Cullen who’d asked her to come back to him, Cullen who had set aside his pride to send her an endless stream of ravens, notes that reached down deep inside of her to squeeze the few drops of decency she had away until all she had left was the cause and the blood and her magic, until she had to keep herself moving, keep herself killing, keep herself exhausted and sick and sore so she didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to think, didn’t have to remember the feel of Stroud’s lips against her own, his voice and Cullen’s together telling her they loved her, would die for her. 

She had not sent a raven since leaving Adamant. 

She was trapped. Trapped by the clawing fear that she would be asked to risk Cullen and she would do it, she would have to, because that’s what leaders, good, responsible, intelligent leaders, do, they see the greater good, they strive for the greater good, they _believe_ in the greater good. 

The greater good was slowly crushing her. 

Maker, her handsome, gentle, strong Templar had written her poetry. Poetry because Varric told him to, because he missed her, because he cared. She shuddered, hard, and blinked as Bull turned her gently until his hands were on her shoulders, as he hunkered down until they were more of a level, so she could see the sincerity shining out of his one good eye. 

“We have a name for people like you, Boss. _Basalit-an_.” The name sounded like music on his tongue. “It means a non-Qunari worthy of respect. And I bet that, even before you were the Herald or the Inquistor, I bet Meera Trevelyan was worthy of respect.” 

“Meera Trevelyan was no one.” Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it, his hearing slow to catch the words falling from her lips. He opened his mouth and she covered it with her small hand, her skin cold and clammy against his. “No, don’t…don’t argue. You didn’t know me then. No one knew me then. I was just…nobody.” Her mouth curled, slowly, into a pantomime of a smile, her eyes wistful and sad and shadowed. “For I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed, sing only the words You place in my throat.” 

“Well fuck me sideways.” Meera blinked as Bull huffed out a breath and stood up. She was further confused when he picked her up and force marched her back to Shartan, who snorted uneasily when the big Qunari hefted her up into the saddle. She clung to the pommel out of habit and ventured, 

“Bull?” 

“Shut up,” he said, pleasantly, climbing into the saddle of his own mount. “Hey, Blackwall, Cole, get over here! We've got to see some Dalish about some halla.” 

He refused to speak to her for the rest of the short trip, only sighing a little when she veered off the path for a moment to investigate some ruins, leaving their mounts tethered so they could graze. She lit the veilfire sconce she found with a flick of her fingers, nodding to Cole absently when he handed her a torch to dip into the wavering green flames. That, of course, brought the demons from the rift that crackled open near the water, the rift she’d obviously expected for she immediately splayed her free hand toward the ground and pressed, closing one of the openings in the ground just before it could spit out one of its Fade terrors. That still left two wraiths and when Blackwall and Cole would have moved in to help, Bull said, only, “Wait.” 

Meera circled her hand and fire blossomed beneath the wraith on the left, crackling up to engulf its ghostly green form even as she stepped gracefully aside, neatly avoiding the ground that tried to open up in licks of green flame and sharp, jagged rocks and swallow her whole. The wraith on the right shot a bolt of spirit energy just as a barrier bloomed overhead, flickering into being without even a hand motion, and as Meera said, calmly, her barrier hissing as it deflected another volley of energy, “Cole, blades,” Bull motioned to Blackwall to take up a position near the rift. 

There was never only one wave of demons. 

Cole’s thin, deadly throwing blades passed through the remaining enemy, dissipating it like smoke. Meera lifted her hand, the mark sparking to life, and started pulling energy from the rift, draining its power, but as was usual with these things, the Fade rift fought her, pushing back until, with a loud rushing roar, it forced her hand down and away, the ground erupting around them. “Five!” she called, stepping behind Blackwall next to Cole, her hand hovering once more over the ground. Canceling the magic that allowed the demons to slither through took a lot of her available mana and she had more uses for it this time so she rebuilt the barrier, tightened its corners, and waited. 

The rage demon roared as it burst in a towering gout of flame from the ground, Blackwall’s shield immediately up, Bull’s low curse the only warning that it wasn’t five, no, it was six, three wraiths on the outer perimeter, two shades, and the rage demon, her heartbeat picking up speed to match the quick movement of the battle around her, boom boom boom, as she stabbed backward with her blade, felt something behind her give with a strange, lurching crunch of something not quite bone, not quite flesh, not all spirit. 

“Steady!” The watchword fell from her lips at nearly the same instant she released her hold on her emotions, a rough telekinetic blast of terror in a circle around her that knocked back both shades and caused dust and leaves to swirl into a small tornado. Bull cursed again and Cole grunted as she caught them in the blast radius but it was Blackwall, Blackwall who was being steadily pushed back toward the river by the rage demon, a rage demon she could do nothing about at a distance, her fire spells useless against a being fashioned of flame, that had Meera drawing the Fade around her like a restless, living cloak, one that tried to choke the breath and life out of her, drowning, deep, dark, sleep, it whispered as she moved across the battlefield, invisible. 

The demon shrieked as she rematerialized inside its boiling, raging inferno of a body, shoving the Fade away from her and nearly choking again as soot and ash tried to crawl into her lungs when the demon exploded backward and away from both she and the Warden. Blackwall slapped her once, hard, on the back, and she sucked in a breath that scorched and burned its way down as he leaped after the demon, skewering it with his sword. She pivoted and set one of the shades on fire from the inside out, drawing its ire from Bull long enough for Cole to plunge both of his wickedly curved blades into what passed for its head. The other shade was already a pile of dirty rags on the ground, leaving only the three wraiths. 

“Cover!” she demanded, lifting her glowing, marked hand again and this time, too much of the rift’s energy had already been spent. With a long, low roar, it collapsed, taking two of the wraiths with it back into the Fade and gravely injuring the third. 

Bull again held Blackwall and Cole back as Meera, with a little flourish, dispatched it with a quick blast of flame from her staff and then set the hilt in the dirt, looking dirty and tired and triumphant. 

“So, nobody, Boss?” 

Meera turned, ever so slowly, to find Bull smirking at her, his eye crinkled at the corner with mirth, demonic ichor dripping from his axe and decorating his chest in a pattern of whorls and splashes. He took a step toward her, cupped her tiny, confused, sweet human face in his huge Qunari hand and said, firmly, 

“Bein’ a hero makes more of you, not less. You weren’t nobody before and you sure as fuck ain’t nobody now.” She tried to shake her head, sick and sad and sorry, and he said, firmly, “Mimi. Don't run away from what you've gained because you're afraid you aren't worthy. _Be_ worthy.” 

Neither of them noted how Blackwall's face contorted as he turned away. 

OoO 

Solas was waiting back at the camp when they arrived having successfully, if carefully, negotiated with the Dalish by providing supplies, herding a golden halla into their camp, clearing an old burial site of what else but demons, and returning the effects of a young man who'd been lost to his own feelings of self-doubt but had, in the end, discovered the whereabouts of an important talisman of the People. 

They returned that, too, and gained an eager young Dalish agent who was even now talking excitedly with one of the scouts in camp. 

Meera went immediately to the agitated, pacing Solas, her hands out, her face switching instantly from contemplation into worry and comfort. Blackwall muttered a curse that had Bull nodding and Cole saying, “He needs her help. That makes it easier, the next crisis, the next battle, keep moving, don’t stop, when you stop it hurts.” 

Bull hoped the stupid elf wouldn't ruin all of his carefully chosen words to Meera. “Yeah, spirit boy. That’s when it hurts.” 

Because it was Meera's way, to help, they went to save the spirit that was Solas's imprisoned friend. She didn’t flinch when she saw it was a demon, didn’t turn away in disgust, instead issuing orders quietly. “Blackwall, try to keep it…her…occupied. Solas east, Cole west, Bull north, I’ll take south. Take the pillars down as quickly as possible but do not kill her.” 

Once the tainted spirit was freed, Meera tended quietly to Blackwall’s burnt leg and the cut under his eye as Solas said goodbye to his friend, as what had once been a spirit of Wisdom blew away on the wind like so much fog stirred by a breeze. After, when Solas turned on the not-quite innocent humans who had hurt his friend, it was Meera who stayed his hand by saying his name, quietly. 

The elf paused as he moved away, his shoulders hunched. Only Bull could see that his eyes were distant and cold, his sharp face full of a strange hesitancy and faint derision. Bull filed that information away as Solas said, quietly, “My friend. You should return to Skyhold. The Commander is not well.” 

They left at first light. 


	23. Transfigurations 12.4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transfigurations 12:4  
>  _My Creator, judge me whole:_  
>  _Find me well within Your grace._  
>  _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed._  
>  _Tell me I have sung to Your approval._

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Slow, steady, calm. A lake of bright, clear, still water. 

Center. The green hills of Ferelden before the Blight, the lap of the waves against the shore in Kirkwall, inevitable and slow and soothing, the middle between guts and head and heart. 

Ground. The weight of a sword, smooth leather on the hilt, perfectly balanced, the sonorous voice of the Revered Mother singing the Chant, oh, Maker, hear my cry, dirt or sand or mud beneath the boots. 

Begin: block, slash, parry, dodge, harry, sidestep, thrust, spin, duck. 

Again. Block, slash, parry, dodge, harry, sidestep, thrust, spin, duck. 

He shifted from form to form effortlessly, the dance all he let matter, his sword a bright arc of silver in the sunlight, his breathing and his heartbeat and his focus all he had. Sweat was the inevitable result, trickling down his temples, beading in his eyelashes, the taste of salt and rust on his lips, his shirt discarded already after the run as dawn pinked the sky, a pile of linen and fur mantle and shield somehow still neat and tidy at the side of the empty training yard. 

He increased his speed, relished the burn and pull of his muscles, pushing himself so that he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel, didn't have to hope or wish or remember. He was focus and breath and the ground and the sky, one with his sword, one with the Chant. He heard, only dimly, as footsteps moved toward him, didn't bother to pause as he reached the end only to begin again, a little faster, a little smoother, willing greater finesse into his movements. 

He did not let himself wish, however briefly, that he could call on the Fade as _she_ did to amplify and enhance his movements. He did not think, however wistfully, of how her hair glinted in the sun, a nimbus of fire. He did not remember, however much it twisted his heart, the feel of her spine under his fingertips on a hill destroyed later by hatred and madness. 

Even inside his head, he was the most terrible of liars. 

His pace slowed, slowed until he was panting and sore and tired and unmoving in the middle of the empty ring, his sword hanging limply at his side, aware suddenly of the sticky dampness of his hair clinging to the back of his neck, the impossibly curly hair that she liked to run her fingers through after they loved, and he closed his eyes to bite back the terrible rush of loneliness. 

“Commander.” 

“Solas.” He greeted the elf neutrally, blinking into the sun as he moved over to pick up his shirt, using it as an impromptu towel to blot away the worst of the moisture, shrugging into it when Solas seemed disinclined to conversation or movement. 

Contrary to popular opinion, Cullen knew where Solas had been. He knew what the apostate had been sent to do, whom he'd been sent to fetch. While he appreciated the meddling of their friends, he wasn't sure she would. She'd had her reasons for going. He was sure she had her reasons for staying away. For staying silent. 

The muscles of his abdomen trembled, ached and bunched, and he shrugged back into his mantle and strapped on his shield and sheathed his sword before he felt able to turn, to ask, “What can I do for you?” 

The elf shook his head, his lips twisting. “I think, Commander, it is more likely what I can, or have, done for you.” 

Hope was bright and painful and sharp and Cullen flexed his hands to keep them from trembling. 

Solas tipped his head and watched emotions chase themselves across the Commander's face, watched as he worked to master them and was impressed, despite himself, when the man's eyes and face and voice were careful and calm and controlled after only a sparse, naked moment. 

Solas hated everything Cullen stood for: the Chantry, the chains, the walls, the religion. A Maker that abandoned his people behind a Veil, locking the humans out and the spirits in, that took a human woman as his consort so that she might burn at the stake, in whose name countless of the cousins had been slaughtered, the ancient bloodlines lost. It was foreign and despicable and evil, anathema to Solas. 

Cullen, whatever his sins, was not. He never belittled other races no matter what station they held, from the lowliest stablehand to the highest ranking official. He never chided others for not holding to his laughable beliefs or refusing to venerate his hateful Maker and had, in fact, without Meera's suggestion but with her blessing, supervised the creation of several small spaces throughout Skyhold where others could worship in peace, away from the Chantry garden she'd created. He was kind, and patient, and he had asked Solas, quietly and without guile, if there was anything he needed before he left on his fool's errand to meet with the Inquisitor in the Exalted Plains. There had been no expectations in his voice or his eyes, no pleading or demanding that Solas make Meera return, only the sincere offer of help. 

There were dreams here, hope, faith and love. The eddy of emotions between the Inquisitor and her Commander made Solas dizzy and disoriented and smaller, somehow, less tangible, like a spirit caught behind the Veil. 

He despised the feeling. 

“She thinks you've been ill.” 

Solas watched Cullen pause and then rake a hand through his tousled hair. “Well, that's partially true, I suppose.” His grin flashed, mischievous and bright. “Should I take to my bed, then?” 

The elf shook his head, his own smile vague, unsettled. What had brought him here to Cullen instead of seeking the solitude he’d told Meera he needed? Their pull was ridiculous and untenable. “She should arrive by mid-morning at the latest, barring unforeseen complications.” Solas turned to go and barely managed not to growl when Cullen called after him, 

“Thank you, Solas. I appreciate your help.” 

_Fenedhis lasa._

Solas knew he meant it. 

OoO 

Of all the people Meera expected to meet her at the gate, Varric was a surprise. The dwarf, normally a master of sartorial splendor, was looking harried and harassed, his shirt buttoned to his throat, his hair half-undone and straggling into his face, a face that was sporting a matching set of black eyes. “Holy Maker, Varric, what _happened_?” she exclaimed as she slid from Shartan and handed the reins over to Blackwall. The rest of her party moved away, into the late afternoon shade of Skyhold, while Meera stared at Varric and Varric slumped, his eyes darting away as he dragged the toe of his boot through the mud. 

“Varric…” she warned in her Inquisitor voice and he slumped even more, if possible, and Meera, without thinking, reached out and tugged him in until he was leaning against her. Expecting him to shove her back or make a joke, she was shocked when he slid his arms around her waist and squeezed, pressing his cheek against her collarbone with a long, low sound of distress. Soothing him with gentle shushing sounds, rocking a bit, she stroked his hair back from his face and let him lean on her. 

“I fucked up, Princess,” he muttered after a bit, falling silent again immediately. 

“Tell me,” Meera cajoled. She felt him heave out a huge sigh, felt the hands that had been clutching at the back of her armor loosen just a tad, but he didn’t look up at her, his eyes still firmly shut. 

“Bianca is here.” 

Meera blinked. “You're not talking about your crossbow.” 

He shook his head. “No.” He was quiet again for long moments. Meera let him take his time, continued to pet and comfort, and finally, finally, he opened his eyes and started talking very, very fast, the words almost falling over themselves to come out. “No, I'm talking about the girl who made the crossbow. The girl I promised to love forever until I didn't. I think I'm in love with Cassie but I fucked that up, too, because I didn't actually tell Bianca before she got here and that was a shitty thing to do and if you hadn't fallen into the fucking Fade maybe it would have been different and it isn't and now someone is mining red lyrium from my nug-humping brother's Maker-damned thaig.” He took a deep breath, his voice dropping in misery. “They both have excellent aim.” 

“That was a lot of words,” Meera managed and Varric laughed, a hoarse cough, and leaned back from her a little. 

“I told you there was a lot of shit.” 

“You told me...oh. The letter. Yes.” Meera’s eyes skittered away from his for a moment but came back when he squeezed her firmly around the middle to find him smiling at her, a lopsided, understanding quirk of his mouth. He winced, the natural crinkling at the corner of his eyes obviously causing him discomfort, and carefully Meera traced the edge of one dark purple bruise with her fingers, healing magic trickling out to relieve the swelling. He remained still under her fingers, still and quiet, while she coaxed the tissues to knit. “So you deserved the smacks, Bianca and Cassandra are very upset with you, and we need to go on an adventure into the Deep Roads.” 

“That covers it.” 

“Well, shit,” she said and laid her cheek on the top of his head to the sound of another laugh, a real one, from Varric. 

“You’re going to take Cassie with us when we go, aren’t you?” 

“Of course.” 

“Devious.” Varric squeezed her again, his heart lighter than it had been in days. “You headed up to the tower?” 

She sighed. “Is he very angry with me?” 

“Princess.” She looked down in surprise at the chiding note in Varric’s voice. “The guy’s been miserable but he’s not been angry. He’s just been waiting.” Varric watched her face try to crumple, watched her gather herself in, prepared to be disappointed, and he shook his head. “He loves you, Meems. Go up. Say you’re sorry. Kiss him until he can’t breathe.” 

“What if … maybe I…” 

“You didn’t fuck it up. You needed space. He gave you some. Now go and take it back.” 

“You’re a good friend, Varric,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I’m glad Hawke loaned you to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her off. “Go get ‘em.” 

Oh, if only her confidence was as high as Varric’s, she thought wistfully. But she went. 

OoO 

Cullen was issuing orders to his lieutenants, allowing Meera to slip in unnoticed, taking a position by the door where she was blocked partially by the bodies fanned around his desk. 

Oh, Maker, she’d let herself forget how handsome he was, how strongly she felt the pull of him this close. He looked in his element, barking orders, nodding at a report, handing off a sheaf of parchment, and she was fascinated by the cadence of his voice, by his confidence, by the play of sunlight and shadow in his warm blonde hair, and for the first time since she’d fled from him, from Adamant, she let herself _feel_ again. She let her love for him, her affection for him, her pride and respect for him, her desire for him, rise up from the pit of her belly, let her emotions dance around her heart, speeding her pulse, clenching her thighs, and it was a heady rush, a welcome warmth and light and sound when she’d been in the dark. 

For the first time since she’d left him, Meera took a full, deep breath. And she smiled. 

Cullen glanced up at that precise moment, the moment where her pretty lips curved upwards at the corners, and he felt heat rush through him at her frankly admiring, approving gaze, at the warmth and light in her eyes. “That will be all,” he managed, dismissing the crowd abruptly, urging them to file out by following them to the door and shutting it firmly behind them. He took the time to click the lock into place, to gather himself, his arms braced on the door, his eyes on the floor. Coward. He was being a coward. _She was here._ “There’s always something more, isn’t there?” 

She was quiet so long he finally turned, finally made himself look at her, only to find she’d moved closer on silent feet, and she was in his arms before he could take a full breath, in his arms and her fingers were in his hair and she was rising onto tiptoe and he groaned as he gave in, as he leaned down and took her mouth with his. He kissed her and she kissed him back and it was perfect, soft and welcoming and home, it was like coming home, and he breathed her name as he pressed his forehead to hers. “I thought I’d lost you.” 

“I lost myself,” she said softly, tracing his cheekbones, his jaw, turning into the cool leather of his glove as he cupped her cheek. They needed to talk. They needed to talk and she needed to tell him about Stroud and her guilt and to apologize but she didn’t want to talk. She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel his skin under her hands, under her lips, wanted to hold him and love him and remind herself that being alive, being his, was enough. “Can I...will you let me...” 

“Anything, Meera,” he whispered, enchanted by the wash of color across her cheeks, by the shy, hopeful glance she gave him from under her lashes. _She was here._

He caught his breath as her fingers smoothed his mantle off his shoulders, as she loosened and then discarded his wide leather belt, the tunic it held in place gone with it, as she took his hands and, finger by finger, removed his leather gloves, pausing to kiss his palms, his knuckles, her tongue a delicate rasp on the sensitive skin. When he moved to help with his vambraces and breastplate, she shook her head. “No, let me,” she said and so he did, let her fumble open the buckles, untie the knots, her small hands, nicked and callused and feminine, tickling up his forearms as the vambraces slid away, exploring the width of his shoulders as the breastplate was set aside, nuzzling him through the thin material of his undertunic with her mouth, pausing to investigate when he sucked in his breath sharply as her breath ghosted over one of his nipples. 

“Meera,” he entreated, nudging her back toward his desk with some nebulous, half-formed idea of pushing her down onto it, taking control, having her before she drove him quietly mad. Both of them jumped when a bottle already teetering precariously fell to the floor with a crash, shattering and spilling whatever its contents had once been. They stared at each other for a moment, Meera's eyes comically wide, and then he grinned and swept the rest of his desk clean, reports and parchment and detritus, including the little armored Andraste she'd sent him forever ago, falling to the floor in a heap. However, her hand on his chest stopped him when he would have kissed her. “Cullen. Let me love you.” 

She felt the shudder that went through his big body and she took advantage of his surprise to sink down to kneel at his feet. His expression shifted into caution and a strange suggestion of fear, his voice tentative and slow. “Meera. You don't have to...” 

In the darkest parts of him that had been a Templar, in the softly whispered stories in the barracks from other Templars, a mage on their knees willing and eager to serve had been the most forbidden and most objectifying fantasy. For Cullen, looking down on the woman he loved, the _mage_ he loved and respected and followed, it was a fantasy brought to life that sent blood rushing to his cock and panic fluttering at the edges of his mind. He both craved her mouth on him, craved her submission, and feared it, feared releasing the dreams that often tangled into nightmares of death and fire and blood. 

“Cullen,” she murmured again, reaching up to unpin her hair, knowing how he preferred it down, how he liked running his hands through it, and she tried to show him how much she wanted to do this for him, with him, to remind them both _she was here_ , she was his, by rubbing her cheek against his thigh. “I want to.” 

The breath he released was shaky, his body sagging back against the desk a little, his nod of acquiescence accompanied by his hand stroking gently through her hair. “All right.” 

Leaning into his hand, she watched his face as she loosened the ties of his breeches, as she tugged and pulled, as she finally hooked her fingers into the material at his hips and pushed, breeches and smalls yielding to her and sliding to the floor, freeing his cock. Nerves made Meera shiver, nerves because even though it was Cullen who was bare she was the one who felt exposed, her eyes immediately falling to take him in, to study him as she had not in all of the months they had been intimate. He was long but not absurdly so, wide enough that her short fingers could not curl completely around him, the skin velvet smooth and pulled tight over the rush of blood beneath, jutting up from a nest of curls just a shade or two darker than the ones on his head, and when she gently pulled back the hood as she had learned to do from the book of naughty instructions and pictures he had sent her, a bead of clear fluid leaked out. Fascinated, she leaned forward to catch in on her tongue, to taste him, nearly stumbling back when he hissed and the hand in her hair tightened to near pain. 

Rolling her eyes up, her lips still almost brushing against the tip of his cock, she caught the wild look in his eyes, the pupils nearly overtaking the warm amber, his mouth parted as he panted. “Oh,” she murmured in discovery. “You liked that.” So she did it again, this time swirling her tongue around the flushed head, felt her sex clench and then pulse as Cullen groaned, low and deep in his chest, his hand cupping the back of her head to hold her there. Emboldened, she opened her mouth and took him inside, sucking lightly, her hand stroking down the shaft. 

“Holy … _fuck_ ,” Cullen managed, his mind completely blank, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head as Meera began bobbing up and down over him, the sensation of her sweet, warm, wet mouth combined with the added attention of her wicked tongue and the firm strokes of her hand leaving him incoherent with pleasure. He swore he could feel every pull of her lips, every swipe of her tongue in his fingertips and his balls, in his spine and in his toes, and it took every scrap of his control not to wrap her glorious hair around his fists and thrust deep into her throat. “Maker, Meera, I can’t…that is…fuck, so good…please don’t stop…” 

She purred as she forced herself down as far as she could on his cock, his taste salt and musk on her tongue, the sounds he was making, the way he was rolling his hips into her mouth, the arch of his neck as he dropped his head back and stared up at the ceiling, the wild flush of his chest she could see through the gap of his undertunic, all of it combined into a heady rush of power and pride and love: _she’d done that_. And she wanted more, all of it, his complete and total surrender, _hers_ , he was hers, hers and only hers, and so she increased the speed and pressure of her mouth, the speed and pressure of her hand, her other, marked hand rising up to grasp his hip, his thigh, to tease over the tight skin of his balls. 

“I’m so fucking close…oh Maker, Maker, Meera, going to…you have to…sweetheart, _please_ …” His warning was too late, his hands falling away from her at the last second to clutch desperately at the sturdy wood of the desk behind him as he came apart for her, his hips stuttering as he exploded in her mouth, the little hum she made around his ultrasensitive flesh as she swallowed enough to have his hips thrusting forward hard before he could stop them, his legs shaking. She eased him through the aftershocks with soft rubs and gentle licks, her smile smug and gorgeous when he finally gathered himself enough to look down at her. There was still a fine tremor in the hand he used to brush a lock of hair back from her face, that cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “What did I do to deserve you?” he murmured. 

“You see me,” she said, just as softly, reaching up to capture his hand, threading her fingers through his. “You see me and you love me anyway.” 

“I do,” he agreed, pulling her gently to her feet and into his arms. “I do love you, Meera Trevelyan.” 

She snuggled into his chest, pressing a kiss over his heart, letting his words in, letting them wash over her, through her, letting herself believe in him, in herself, in _them_. Trying to move closer, she nearly tripped over the pants and smalls tangled around his boots at his ankles, and she laughed, a little snort of amusement. At his raised eyebrow, she looked down and then back up, still giggling. “You’re still wearing your boots.” 

He looked down in surprise and then huffed out a laugh, pinching her lightly on the bottom. “Undressing me was your job,” he teased. “Since it was and you left it for me to do, you should take off your clothes while I handle mine.” 

“That sounds fair,” she agreed, backing up to give him space. 

And it would have been a perfectly amenable arrangement if the two could have kept their hands to themselves and their thoughts on the task at hand. 

Meera was distracted by Cullen’s stomach muscles rippling as he pulled his undertunic over his head, her hands and then her mouth tempted into exploration that left him gasping as she nibbled and licked and tickled. This led to him hauling her up his body, sitting her on the edge of the desk so he could plunder her mouth, so he could nip at the sensitive skin under her chin, so he could lean down and capture one of her nipples between his lips, sucking and biting and licking until she was squirming and gasping and lifting her hips up to him in a silent plea for more. “You are still wearing too many clothes,” he grumbled playfully, setting her back on her feet, smirking when she swayed a little and blinked at him, bare only from the waist up and the ankles down. “Take off your pants and smalls, sweetheart.” 

That made it Cullen’s turn to be distracted, he by Meera’s lower back as she shimmied out of the rest of her clothes, pushing her forward over the desk to rub his late afternoon stubble over her skin, eliciting first sweet giggles and then even sweeter, throatier moans as he palmed the curve of her ass and licked up her spine. “It’s your turn to come for me,” he whispered at her ear, urging until she lifted one knee up onto the desk, baring her to his gaze. Keeping her steady with one hand on her hip, he used the other to cup her sex. Delighted to find her already drenched, he sank two fingers into her to the second knuckle, pumping them steadily in and out when Meera made an eager noise and pressed back on the invasion. “Do you like that, sweetheart?” he grated, nuzzling the rounded curve of her hip with his mouth. “Do you like my fingers inside of you?” 

“Ohhhhhh…” she managed, sinking forward onto the desk, the cool wood under her cheek steadying her as her focus narrowed to Cullen’s fingers between her legs and his voice, low and deep, saying filthy, arousing things. 

“Meera,” he crooned, crooking the fingers he was using so they dragged over the spot inside he knew she liked, his other hand releasing her hip to slide around to find her clit, stroking it very, very lightly with a fingertip. “So hot and wet and tight, taking my fingers like a good girl. Do you want more, sweetheart?” 

“Cullen…” she whined, arching her back, and then keening as he added a third finger, a delicious stretch but not enough, not what she wanted, what she needed. “Cullen, _please_.” 

“Please what, my beautiful girl?” He leaned forward until his chest was pressed to her back, his height allowing his mouth to nuzzle at hers, the motion of his fingers in and out of her dripping sex rubbing her against the fingertip pressed to her clit. She writhed beneath him, opening her mouth to accept the quick glide of his tongue. “Do you want to come, Meera? Is that what you want?” 

“Yes but…oh, Maker, Cullen, not…not…want…oh…please, want you inside of me. Want your…want…ahhhhhh…fuck, Cullen, please, fuck me, want your cock inside of me, want to come…” She was so close, so close as he continued to pump and twist his fingers inside of her, as he used his weight to rock her against the two fingers now pressed hard to her clit, the little bundle of nerves pulsing, pulsing, pleasure coiling hard and hot in her belly, tightening her muscles, burning in her lungs. 

“Come on my fingers, Meera, come for me sweetheart and I’ll give you what you want, I promise,” he hummed against the back of her neck and she did, the loud cry of his name shooting straight to his already half-hard cock as she pulsed and fluttered and bucked beneath him. Quickly, half mad suddenly with the need to be inside of her, he lifted her other leg up until she was on her knees on his desk, her ass in the air, the perfect angle for him to thrust inside in one long, hard push. The sounds they both made mingled, tangled in the air as he filled her. Slowly, so slowly, one hand braced on the desk, the other still beneath her, still pressed to her clit, he began moving, his rhythm deliberately lazy but deep, a hard snap of his hips. He knew she was capable of two or more orgasms in quick succession, their trip into Ferelden having taught him how to draw them out of her, and he used that knowledge now, desperate to feel her come on his cock. He was rewarded when she cried out in surprise beneath him on his seventh stroke, her fingers clawing at the surface of his desk, finding purchase on the far edge as she clamped down tight around him, her curvy body trembling. 

“Cullen, I’m going to…I’m…oh Maker, Cullen, _Cullen_!” Meera screamed as he continued to fuck her through the sharp spikes of pleasure, the second orgasm followed quickly by another, her vision darkening at the edges. She sobbed in relief when he slid his hand gently from beneath her, his hips slowing even more as he leaned forward, his chest a comforting weight on her back, his lips peppering kisses over the back of her shoulders as he breathed his adoration against her skin. 

“Beautiful. You are so beautiful, Meera. So perfect, all mine, my beautiful, perfect sweetheart, my strong, wonderful mage, my very own lovely girl.” 

Touched beyond all reason, she turned a little to look at his beloved face, to lift her mouth for the kiss he was happy to supply. Her sharp, playful suck on the tip of his tongue, the little nibble she made on his lower lip caused his hips to grind against her, his eyelids fluttering, and Meera rolled her hips in a wide circle, shivering at the wet, slick sound they made together where they were still joined. She licked his full lower lip, some of the oversensitivity having eased, leaving a dreamy, indolent pleasure in its wake. “So handsome, so gorgeous, and strong and kind, my fearless Commander, my Cullen,” she whispered, returning his words like a gift and he arched against her, pressing as deep inside her as possible, pulling a soft sound from her. 

“All right?” he asked and she nodded, smiling against his mouth. 

“Yes. I love how you feel inside of me.” 

“I could keep you here,” he threatened, leaning back a little to resume the languid rhythm of before, cupping one heavy breast in his hand, urging the nipple to hardness with a firm squeeze between his fingers. “Keep you here, bind you to my bed, fill you with my cock, with my come.” He punctuated the words by increasing his pace, by flicking her nipple with his fingers, watching as her face flushed, as she licked her kiss stung lips, as her pupils expanded to fill her eyes, leaving only a thin ring of the spring green. “Would you like that, my sweetheart? Like to be taken every day, fucked on my desk, in my bed, on the floor, my pretty pleasure slave?” 

“Yes,” she whimpered, meeting and matching every one of his thrusts, lifting her ass higher, spreading her legs wider. “Yes, Cullen, please. So good for you, all for you, only for you, yours, I’m yours.” 

“Mine,” he agreed hoarsely, the hand on her breast moving back between her legs, his fingers spreading out around where he was moving in and out of her, his wide palm pressing against her clit. “Mine to take, to have, to fuck, to love.” He could feel her shaking beneath him, feel the little pulses and pulls around his cock that told him she was close, his own orgasm battering at the edges of his control, shredding it. His hips stuttered before resuming, harder and faster, the sounds and smells of their loving filling his office, causing the heavy desk to scrape across the floor, groaning. “Tell me, Meera,” he begged, breathlessly, rubbing his palm hard against her, her slick coating his hand, dripping over his fingers, “Tell me you love me.” 

She pressed her forehead hard to the wood of the desk, tried to gather herself together but it was too late, too late, she was splintering, shattering on his cock, fucking herself back against him as she gave him what he wanted, what he needed, what he craved, her voice a litany, a song, the purest Chant. “Yes, yes, so much, always, I love you, I love you, I love you!” 

His hoarse shout of her name added the counterpoint to her melody, his groaned, “I love you, Meera,” the sweetest sound she'd ever heard as he surged inside of her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you guys have been reading and commenting and being wonderful and I've been pretty quiet. Partly, that's because this is such a huge labor of love for me. Meera and Cullen's story, the Inquisition, they have a strong hold on my heart and imagination. Partly, that's because this story is pretty serious business to me. Some of you have noticed I started a new multi-chapter fic in the [ Star Wars Episode VII ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5715523) fandom and worried I had lost interest in Dissonant Verses. Fear not, I am still here but this story is about craft as much as it is for 'fun' and I expect a lot of out of myself while writing it. This note is just to say: 1) I'm still here. 2) I haven't given up on DV. 3) I love you guys SO MUCH for loving my story and commenting and kudo'ing. 4) You should check out my Star Wars works. Really. Oh, and uh, here, have a lot of smut and pitiful Varric. If you want the non-smut version, it's over at fanfiction.


	24. Silence 1.15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silence 1.15:  
>  _Jealousy and torment consumed them all, for no dreamer_  
>  _Wished to aid the others in the least measure,_  
>  _Yet none could bear that rivals might walk in the Light_  
>  _Of their gods, when they did not._

“I’m sorry.” 

Cullen’s office smelled of sex and spilled ale and burning candles and the tray of food the kitchen girl had delivered with blushes and wide eyes, the tray of food he and Meera had only picked at, their emotions still running too high, too sharp, and which sat on the edge of his desk near where his bare feet were propped. Cullen ran his hand down Meera’s back and kissed the top of her head. He was wearing only his breeches, unlaced, and she’d managed to get his undertunic to stay mostly tied at her neck, though he appreciated the glimpses of the round globes of her breasts he received as she shifted to find a more comfortable position in his lap where they were cuddled together in his chair. “For what, sweetheart?” 

“Running. Hurting you. Ignoring your letters.” Meera tilted her head back to find him looking back at her, his eyes full of understanding as he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “The poetry was beautiful.” 

His mouth quirked in the little half-grin that made her stomach squirm pleasantly. “You know I didn’t write it.” 

She chuckled and captured his hand, tucking it with her own between her breasts. “Did Varric threaten to dismember you or were you just that desperate?” 

“Neither.” He leaned forward, curving around her until she felt safe and protected and loved, so loved, his grin slipping away into seriousness. “I missed you very much, Meera Trevelyan.” His lips brushed butterfly soft over her forehead. “Every minute of every day. I know you had to go. I know I made a terrible mess of telling you how I felt…feel…about you. I know…” His mouth was tender on her cheekbones, on the bridge of her nose, on her lips. “I know he loved you. I’m sorry you lost him.” 

“Sacrificed.” Meera said it firmly, pressing her forehead against Cullen’s jaw, feeling his golden stubble scrape across her skin. “I _sacrificed_ Jean-Marc. It was him or Hawke and I couldn’t…” She shook her head, closed her eyes, her short nails biting into his skin where she still clutched his hand between her breasts. “He deserved better.” 

“Yes.” Cullen’s even agreement did not make her feel better and the warmth and comfort of his embrace only intensified her feelings of guilt and shame and the terrible, terrible weight of responsibility. 

“I just keep thinking…I can’t stop wondering…” She forced herself to look at him again, her voice whisper soft. “Cullen. What if it had been you?” 

He brought their joined hands to his mouth, kissed her knuckles, and then pressed her palms against his face. “What if you become an abomination?” He felt her jerk, saw shock race through her eyes, and kept her hands pressed against his skin, kept his face calm and serious. “You know it would have to be me. Cassandra could, and would, but it would have to be me.” 

“No. No, there isn’t…that isn’t even…” 

He heard panic start to catch in her throat, the hitch and stutter of her breath in her chest, the pupils of her eyes expanding and then contracting harshly as she tried to breathe. Magic tingled along her skin, her emotions leaking, and he used a trickle of his own power, radiating calm, serenity, dampening her abilities without completely severing her from them. “Sweetheart. There are always bad things. You and I, we know that better than most. Don’t make a terrible situation, an impossible situation, more difficult by playing what if.” She shuddered, a full body tremble, and Cullen kissed her, slow and soft and gentle, kissed her until her breathing had steadied, kissed her until he felt some of the tension slide out of her muscles, kissed her until she was kissing him back. Afterward, he brushed his thumbs over the backs of her hands still bracketed around his face and kept his eyes steady on hers. “It’s only right to mourn his death, to be disgusted by the loss of a brave, good man. And the guilt you feel because he loved you is natural, as well.” 

“He kissed me.” The words spilled out of her before she could think better of them. Cullen’s eyes darkened, the corners of his eyes flinching, his mouth tightening. “It wasn’t like when you kiss me. I didn’t…there wasn’t…” She trailed off miserably and Cullen sighed, releasing her hands to slide one arm around her waist, snuggling her against him. 

“Sometimes I forget how young you are, how sheltered you’ve been.” He brushed her hair behind her ear, smiling a little when she turned into the caress. “I’ve got a decade on you. A decade and some experience and maybe it was unfair of me to just snatch you up, to claim you.” His smile became self-deprecating as he traced her delicate, jutting chin with a fingertip. “Brave, pretty, powerful Meera. I don’t like it that he kissed you. I don’t want to know that other lips have touched yours, only mine. But that’s foolish. There will always be other men who want to kiss you.” 

Her lips curved, soft and sweet, at the sincerity in his voice, and it was her turn to touch him, to trace the arch of his sandy brows, the thin bridge of his nose, to press a fingertip to his chin. His beloved, precious face. “I’m glad it was you. That it _is_ you.” She tapped the scar that bisected his upper lip, mapped it with the pad of her thumb. 

“So am I.” The kiss this time was initiated by Meera but Cullen was only too happy to oblige, teasing the seam of her lips with his tongue, dipping in to glide over and around the fullness of her lower lip, the perfect bow of her upper, the teasing drag of her teeth pulling a sound from him as he shifted beneath her. He breathed his next words against her mouth, his nose nuzzling her cheek. “Whatever his feelings for you or your feelings for him, Stroud did a noble thing. Don’t make it in vain by pushing the rest of us away out of fear. We’re stronger together.” 

She grumbled without any heat behind it and turned to bump her nose against his, her hands stroking across the planes of his chest. “I hate it when you’re right. Which is more often than I’d like.” 

He chuckled and nipped the end of her nose with his teeth. “Remember that the next time I have a suggestion at the war table.” Something shifted in her expression, something sultry and wanting, and Cullen sucked in his breath as she suddenly swung around in his lap to face him, her legs bracketing his hips, his cock stirring as he felt her warmth and the remains of their earlier loving through the undone laces of his breeches. She reached down and pulled the borrowed tunic up and over her head, dropping it carelessly to the floor, and leaned forward so her breasts plumped against his chest. Her eyes were bright, teasing, her fingers anything but when they slid down between them, released his cock, and curled around it, a firm squeeze. He felt a little thread of her magic, this time aimed at him, and the willing but not quite ready feeling was replaced by a hot, fast rush of blood. He had to admit that was a very handy, if disturbing, skill. 

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about you and me, naked, on that horrid table?” When he didn’t answer, interested and invested in what she would do, she raised an eyebrow and rose to her knees, the chair just wide enough, and rubbed him against the outer lips of her sex, her fingers playing over them both. 

“No?” he managed, a strangled sound, and her grin was fast and hot as she slid down, taking him completely inside of her in one dizzying, heady rush. 

“Now you’ll think about it, too.” 

OoO 

They woke tangled together, one of Cullen's arms trapped under Meera’s cheek, the other draped over her back, she half-turned onto her stomach away from him, his thigh pressed between her legs as he lay on his side, his nose buried in her hair. Sunlight spilled warm and golden from the hole in the ceiling, warming the loft bed, and Cullen realized they’d slept most likely until mid-afternoon. “You always smell like lyrium,” he murmured, his voice roughened by sleep, and she made a little sound of worry and distress even as she snuggled back into him. “ 's all right, sweetheart,” he soothed, nuzzling through her curtain of hair until he could press a kiss to the back of her shoulder. “Sleep better when you're here.” 

“And after lots of sex,” she teased, her own voice huskier than normal, and he yawned his agreement into her skin, tugging until her bottom was snuggled into the curve of his thighs, his arms wrapped around her waist. They'd slept and loved and talked and loved again, falling asleep for the last time sometime around dawn. It had been a catharsis and a promise, Meera finally able to let go of some of the anguish of the Fade by sharing it with him, Cullen finally able to truly accept that her retreat from him had not been about him at all. 

“Wish I really could keep you here,” he admitted, his voice tinged with bashful guilt, and Meera giggled and turned over to face him. He was blushing, an adorable tinge of red at the tips of his ears and across the sharpness of his cheekbones, and she was lured into kissing him, slow and soft. 

“I wish only to obey,” she whispered, nuzzling his whiskery cheek with her nose, grinning mischievously as she added in what she hoped was a sexy voice, “Commander.” 

Cullen mock-growled and pushed her over onto her back, looming over her, the pose designed to make her feel smaller, daintier, feminine, and wanted. Oh, how wanted, she thought with a decadent thrill as he glanced down between them, appreciating her body, bare for him, his hand coming up to trace over a bruise on the upper slope of her breast, a bruise shaped like his fingers, and his eyes rolled up to look at her as he scooted down and pressed his mouth over it, sucking lightly at the skin as his tongue laved. She gasped and arched up, the mixture of pleasure and pain intoxicating and sharp, and his laughter was low and masculine as he laid his cheek over the bruise, his face full of affection. “You know they’ll come looking for us soon.” 

She pouted, prettily, and tousled his hair with her fingers, rubbing circles on his scalp that made him want to purr like a cat. “Don’t wanna go do work,” she grumbled. “Wanna stay and kiss you, instead.” 

He laughed and slid back up, obliging her with a long, deep kiss that had them both sighing as they eased away to breathe. He pressed his forehead to hers. “You are adorable and I love you. Unfortunately, you are also the Inquisitor and I am your Commander and if we do not report for duty sometime today, Josephine will barge in with Cassandra right behind her.” He raised an eyebrow when she frowned, suddenly and fiercely. “What is that look about, sweetheart?” 

“I can’t decide if I’m angry with Varric for being stupid, at Cass for being stubborn, or with this Bianca person who makes me want to strangle her and I haven’t even _met_ her.” Meera stroked her hands down the firm line of Cullen’s back and frowned harder, narrowing her eyes at him. “If there’s a woman in your past who might show up and cause trouble, speak now or die a horrible, painful death.” At his amused look, she poked him in the butt. “Smug bastard, don’t think I won’t hurt you.” 

He laughed, full and loud, rolling over so she sprawled across his chest, gloriously naked and trying to be threatening but cuter than a spitting kitten. He cupped her sweet, mutinous face in his hands. “There were women before you, Meera.” He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose when she grumbled. “But you’re the only one I’ve loved.” 

“Good,” she said decisively, grabbing him by the hair for a hard, rough, teeth and tongue kiss. “Because you’re mine.” 

“I’m yours,” he agreed readily and then he slapped the rounded curve of her bottom. That she actually squeaked was a bonus to the way her curvy body bounced. “Now up with you, Inquisitor. We need food and then to sort out our friends.” 

“Fine, fine,” she grumbled but paused as she started to go down the ladder out of the loft. “Cullen?” 

“Yes?” 

“Could you…maybe you could sleep in my bed?” At his confused look, she elaborated, her voice more tentative than she would have liked, “From now on. With me.” 

His smile was as wide and as bright as the sun, his expression delighted as he came across the loft toward her, his golden hair falling appealingly over his brow as he leaned forward, hands braced on the top of the ladder. “I would be honored to move into your quarters, sweetheart.” 

He sealed the agreement with a kiss that curled her toes and had her humming happily under her breath even as she had to make her away across the keep back to her…their room wearing yesterday’s dirty clothing. 

OoO 

“I do not like her.” Cassandra narrowed her eyes when Meera made a little snort into her glass of wine. “It is not solely because of Varric,” Cassandra protested, her words only slurring a little and this time it was Dorian who snorted. 

The three friends were camped out in Meera, and now Cullen’s quarters, Dorian on the floor near Meera's legs where she was snuggled up in a blanket, Cassandra nominally at the end opposite but up and pacing more than she was sitting, agitated and getting steadily drunk on the several bottles of wine Meera had commandeered from the kitchens. Cullen was due to join them after a meeting with his lieutenants, Sera when she was done sulking that Meera hadn't brought her a present. Varric had been gently but firmly barred from the room over vociferous protests and a gentle but stern admonishment from Meera that he had a guest to which he owed his time and attention. It had nearly broken her heart to see Varric's head sag, his normally smiling faced creasing as he glanced around her hip where Cassandra was standing by the window, pointedly ignoring him. 

He'd gone but he hadn't been happy about it. 

“I honestly don't find her particularly interesting, either,” Dorian admitted when Cassandra turned her dark brown glare on him. “She's terribly boring. _Paragons_ this and _when Varric was lovelorn_ that.” Dorian shuddered delicately. “Absolute drivel.” 

“She does tend to talk a lot about herself,” Meera agreed. Her first meeting with the dwarf had not gone well. Bianca had been overeager to please and Meera, already disinclined to charity in the case of her friend’s broken heart, had withdrawn into haughty silence. 

She’d heard Bianca mutter as she walked away, “What the Creators crawled up _her_ ass?” 

Cassandra rolled her eyes and propped a hip against the edge of Meera's desk, crossing her booted feet at the ankles. “Yes, well, he has carried Bianca for a long time.” 

“Personally, I would rather be the one warming his bed than the namesake of his weapon,” Dorian said airily, then grinned, a quick slash under his mustache. “Unless, of course, we're talking his _weapon._ ” 

Meera was still giggling, Dorian preening, and Cassandra looking thoughtful when there was a knock at the downstairs door and the call from the bottom from Cullen, “I have Sera and we are coming up.” 

Booted feet sounded on the stairs along with Sera's teasing, “Better not be decent!” The elf's pout was exaggerated as she swung around the banister. “Aw, nobody's naked or doin' the business.” 

“But there's wine,” Dorian pointed out and Sera pounced on the full glass Cassandra held out to her, wiggling her butt after hopping up to sit on the desk next to the Seeker, bumping the other woman gently with her shoulder. “Wotcher, Seeks.” 

Cullen smiled and waved away a glass, choosing instead to scoop Meera up, blanket and all, and then sink back down onto the couch with her in his lap. “I am too tired for wine. Josie caught me on the stairs and wanted to know what I was going to do about the incoming delegation from Orlais.” At Meera's inquiring look, he shrugged a shoulder. “They apparently were hoping to make a marriage proposal.” 

“To Mimi?” Dorian asked, tilting his head back to smile at Cullen, who smiled down in turn and shook his head. 

“No, to me.” 

There was a general round of chuckles and a grumbled, “Over some dead bodies,” from Meera that had Cullen squeezing her tight and Dorian nearly spitting red wine across the carpet as he tried to snicker and swallow at the same time. 

“Glad you two are fluttery again. Too many late night rowrs.” Sera made some sort of gesture that might have been cat claws. Meera pulled a face and threw a pillow that Sera dodged easily, sticking out her tongue. Cullen propped his chin on the top of Meera’s head, looking across at Cassandra. 

“Are we still talking about it or would you prefer we not?” 

Cassandra jerked a shoulder and stared morosely down into her wine, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes pulling tight. “What is there to discuss? He promised me she was no longer part of his life. He lied.” She took a long, deep swallow of the ruby red liquid. “I do not like liars.” 

“But you love our favorite storyteller.” Dorian waved away Cassandra’s narrow look with a flick of his fingers. “Oh, stop, we all know you do. He wooed you with words and that ridiculously muscular and hairy chest and most likely the thing he can do with his tongue that Hawke loved to tease you about.” Cassandra’s blush was fiery red and hot and Sera nudged her again with her shoulder, more gently this time. 

“Hey, he’s a slippery one, that dwarf.” 

“And miserable.” 

Meera nodded her agreement to Cullen’s pronouncement. “Yes. He was very upset with me that Cullen gave you bruises. Claimed it was my fault.” 

“That was luck,” Cullen said loyally but Cassandra’s smile was soft as she shook her head. 

“No, that was skill. You took advantage of my weak spot. It was very well-done.” 

“In love as in war,” Dorian murmured and Meera suddenly nodded eagerly, a plan that had been stewing in the back of her head finally clicking into place. 

“Yes! Exactly!” She tried not to fidget when three pairs of eyes swung in her direction, only Cullen simply snuggling her closer, his hands slipping under the blankets and her loose tunic to press to her skin. “Listen, Varric did a bad thing, no question. But he’s obviously sorry. And unhappy. And so are you.” On a roll, Meera barreled right over Cassandra’s protest, ignoring Cullen who chuckled into the back of her neck. “And I do not like Bianca and I don’t think Varric does, either, and so let’s drag her off on an adventure and show her who’s _really_ amazing and gorgeous and smart and can kick her ass.” 

“You?” Sera teased but Dorian was nodding emphatically, his mustache twitching with glee, nearly bouncing with excitement. 

“Yes! Yes, this is perfect, Meera you devious creature you, I am so proud. Cassandra the valiant, able to slay dragons with a mighty thrust of her sword, deadly and beautiful, the epitome of Varric’s heroine in Swords and Shields.” He giggled and toasted Meera and then Cassandra with his glass, winking at Sera when she suddenly made a low whistling sound of understanding. Cassandra still looked dubious and unsure. 

“Would it help if I said I thought Bianca might be the cause of all the…shit…as Varric put it?” Cullen shrugged when it was his turn to be the center of attention, palming Meera’s hips beneath the blanket. “I’m no Leliana but it seems to me who would know about a possible source of red lyrium in that thaig if not for Bianca? It’s damn convenient that she’s the one bringing us the news considering no one is supposed to know about the thaig in the first place.” 

“That is...quite possible.” Cassandra’s frown was fierce, the knuckles of the hand holding her glass turning white. “How terrible for Varric.” 

“Cass.” Meera’s voice was persuasive and gentle. “The best revenge you can have is to forgive him. Show Bianca how real relationships work, even when they’re not perfect.” 

“Then we’ll take her out and show her how real heroes do it,” Sera added, making a lewd gesture that had Dorian and Cullen snorting out a laugh and Meera rolling her eyes. “C’mon, you know you want to,” Sera needled when Cassandra shot her a look from under beetled black brows. 

“You…” Cassandra tapped her boot against the floor, tilting her head. “You are correct. I do want to.” She grinned, wide and dangerous. “Let us go kick ass and take names.” 

There was a ragged cheer as Cassandra tossed back the rest of her wine and rose, only a little wobbly, to her feet. “I need to go find a dwarf and kiss him senseless. Excuse me.” 

And she was gone, clattering down the stairs with eager feet, quite at odds with normal Cassandra behavior. 

“That’s our cue, too, Sera the elf,” Dorian announced, rising to his feet. He paused to lean in to kiss Meera on the cheek, pat Cullen on the shoulder, and set his empty glass on the desk before gathering up a protesting Sera. “Shush, you, they want to do the business, as you’re always saying, and we aren’t invited.” 

“As if,” Sera sniffed but she, too, stopped to kiss Meera on the cheek, choosing to pat Cullen on the head rather than the shoulder. “No offense, Cully-Wully, but boys are gross.” 

“Speak for yourself, elf, men are fantastic,” Dorian declared grandly and then they were gone, arguing good-naturedly on the merits of men versus women, and Meera and Cullen were, once more, blessedly alone as the door at the bottom of the stairs clicked closed. 

“Hello,” she said, turning her face up to his, her eyes spring bright and warm and Cullen couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her as if it hadn’t been less than half a day since he’d seen her, his body stirring as if it hadn’t been only a little more than that since he’d been inside of her as she slid her arms up and around his neck and leaned into the kiss, eagerly opening her mouth to the slow, easy glide of his tongue. He took his time, tracing the ridges of her teeth, tasting the roof of her mouth, sipping at her lips, her taste wine and uniquely Meera. 

“Hello,” he returned, nuzzling her nose with his as they parted to breathe. “Miss me?” 

“Always,” she said sweetly and Cullen tucked her and the blanket more firmly into his lap, content. 

OoO 

Skyhold was abuzz with gossip the next morning. The Commander had moved, sword and shield and reports, into the Inquisitor’s quarters, the Seeker had been heard yelling at and then been seen kissing the Kirkwall dwarf into submission, tugging him backward into the armory by his tunic around midnight, and said dwarf’s mysterious but loud visitor was stomping angrily around the keep, snarling at anyone but especially the Inquisitor when she finally appeared around late morning, smiling cheerfully. 

“This is all your doing,” Bianca accused, jabbing a finger toward Meera. An Orlesian nearby in the great hall tittered, hiding her mouth behind her hand even though she was masked when Meera winked at her broadly. 

“What is all my doing?” Meera asked disingenuously, pausing to pick over the fruit in a bowl on one of the long trestle tables, choosing finally a ripe, bright green apple. She polished it on her tunic and then lifted it to her mouth, taking a deliberate, hard, loud bite almost in Bianca’s face, then resumed her leisurely stroll toward Josephine’s door. She’d been promised tea and cakes and pampering if she would only write a few letters, sign a few documents. Even Leliana had been invited, though Meera imagined that was more to discuss Divine Justinia than to partake of frilly iced pastries. 

“You’ve turned him against me!” Bianca’s voice was strident, rising on the last syllable when Meera paused and raised one eyebrow. 

“I’ve done nothing of the sort.” She had stopped by the armory, knocked, and when told to go away by Varric’s rough, deep voice even after she’d let them know it was her, she’d giggled all the way to the great hall. The thought made her smile even now as she pulled open the door to Josephine’s office. 

“Nugshit!” Bianca slapped her palm against the door, the slam as it closed reverberating throughout the great hall. All activity ceased, a hush falling over the small crowd as Meera turned slowly, her face taking on the cold, closed, set expression that marked her transition from shy, sweet, gentle woman to harsh, haughty, powerful Inquisitor. Bianca, heedless, crowded into Meera’s personal space, her lips drawn back in a sneer, rising onto her toes in a frankly threatening manner. “My relationship with Varric is nothing to do with you, _human_.” The last was clearly meant as an insult. 

The fire in the nearby hearth suddenly roared higher, hotter, and a few of those watching quickly decided retreat was the better part of valor: the Inquisitor’s magic ability was legendary but the thought of seeing her wield it firsthand was downright terrifying. Neither woman noted who stayed nor who left though Meera was aware of Vivienne sinking elegantly into a chair at one of the tables, her smooth dark face untroubled but her eyes watchful, and of the door into Solas’s solar easing open. “It has everything to do with me when it brings trouble to my doorstep, Bianca,” she said reasonably, propping a shoulder against the now closed door. “Red lyrium is a dangerous substance.” 

“I’m not talking about the nughumping lyrium!” Bianca snarled. “He’s been mine for longer than you’ve been alive, little girl. Don’t think you can change that.” 

“Ah.” Meera kept her voice vaguely bored, let a smile that didn’t reach her eyes curl up the corners of her mouth. “I think you’ll find, _Mrs. Davri_ , that he stopped being yours long before I came along.” She reached out and placed a hand on Bianca’s shoulder, squeezing slightly harder than was necessary, using a trickle of her fire magic until Bianca jerked back, away from the door, eyes narrowed but suddenly full of worry. Meera inclined her head politely as she once more pulled open the door and started to step through. “We should be ready to explore the thaig in a couple of days. Do be ready to accompany us, won’t you? I’m sure Varric and Cassandra will be quite thrilled to have your help.” 

The door clicked quietly closed behind her. 


	25. Trials 1.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trials 1.5:  
>  _You have walked beside me_  
>  _Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh._  
>  _You have stood with me when all others_  
>  _have forsaken me._

Well pleased with her handling of Bianca and feeling smug, Meera was completely unprepared to step into Josephine’s office to find her Ambassador throwing knives at a practice dummy while her Spymistress sat behind the desk, writing furiously. Meera paused at the threshold to take in the scene, Leliana’s lower lip sucked between her teeth as her slender fingers flew over the pages, her hair like fire in the sunlight streaming through the window, Josephine’s half-closed left eye as she sighted on the target, the elegant way she stepped one dainty foot back and then followed through, the solid thunk as the knife bisected the dummy’s jugular. The promised tea and cakes scented the room with bergamot and the sweet tang of icing, the silver teapot with its long, elegant spout arranged prettily next to the tiered tray of delicacies, three comfortable chairs from the main hall, tufted blood red cushions already fluffed and inviting, waiting only for them to sit. A room of strife, violence, and tea. It was a perfect metaphor for her life, Meera thought with both reluctant amusement and troubled unease and she kept her voice soothing and calm as she stepped down into the room. “What’s happened?” 

Josephine attempted a smile that fell far short, as did the blade that clattered to the floor, her eyes red-rimmed and damp and swollen as Meera moved closer to take her unoccupied hand, the olive skin hot to the touch. Josephine trembled for a moment, uncertain, before giving into the tug as Meera pulled her into an embrace, burying her face in Meera’s throat with a pained, angry sob. Leliana looked up at the sound, her teeth drawn back in a feral grimace, her bright blue eyes glinting dangerously, and unease bloomed into fear in Meera’s stomach as she rubbed at Josephine’s back. “Leliana?” she asked as Josephine’s tears soaked her tunic. 

Instead of answering, Leliana held up a crumpled piece of parchment and tossed it with unerring accuracy once Meera had a hand lifted to catch it. She smoothed it out awkwardly over Josephine’s head, frowning over the small, cramped writing, the meaning dawning slowly enough that Leliana finished whatever she was writing with a flourish, the sound of the wax dripping onto the parchment surprisingly loud. 

_M’Lady,_

_There is little I can say that will ease this pain. Just know that while it hurt to leave, it would’ve hurt more if I’d stayed._

_-B._

“He just…left?” Meera felt a pang of guilt. She had not been to speak with Blackwall since their return, had not sought his company or his counsel in the rush to reunite with Cullen and meddle in Cassandra and Varric’s love affair. 

“Yes.” Leliana nearly hissed the word as she pressed the seal of the Inquisition firmly into the wax, her brows drawn together. Her beautiful face was set, disgust written clearly in her sneer. “ _Connard_.” 

Josephine shook her head against Meera’s shoulder but didn’t protest Leliana’s assessment of Blackwall’s poor character. “I don’t understand,” Meera admitted. “Where did he go?” 

“The son of a dog went to Val Royeaux to attend a hanging.” Leliana rose from behind the desk, sliding the parchment into a messenger tube and sealing it up with a loud pop. “If he is lucky, it will not be his own.” 

Meera felt Josephine jerk against her, her fingers clutching at the back of Meera’s tunic before she eased away. Her eyes were shiny and dark and gently chiding as she turned to look at Leliana. “Do not blame yourself,” she cautioned, her Antivan accent thicker with her tears. Leliana blanched and turned slightly away, the tube clutched in her fist, and Josephine sighed and scrubbed at her face like a child before approaching her oldest friend. “Leliana. You could not have known.” 

“It is my duty to know!” Leliana’s voice was as strident and angry as Meera had only ever heard it once before, in Haven when she interceded to save the life of a spy, and she flinched. Leliana noted the movement and grumbled apologetically, “ _Merde._ And now I am scaring the Inquisitor.” The Spymistress sank back into the desk chair, leaning her bright head over onto Josephine’s hip as Josephine combed her fingers through her hair. “Forgive me, Meera. We are doing a poor job of explaining.” A wistful half-smile lightened Leliana’s face as she tipped it up to look at Josephine. “We did so want to offer you a true afternoon of female secrets and laughter.” 

Meera made a pushing away gesture with her fingers even as she moved over to lean against the corner of the desk. “We’ll find time. For now, talk to me. Why did Blackwall go to Val Royeaux to a hanging?” 

“Because he is not the Grey Warden Blackwall at all.” Josephine turned her face away as Leliana continued, “He is, in fact, the wanted criminal Thom Rainier.” 

“Who?” 

“Captain Thom Rainier of the Orlesian military, wanted in connection with the murder of the Callier family in 9:37.” Leliana spoke as if reading from a report, her normally melodious voice flat and without affect. “General Vincent Callier, a trusted General and close ally of Celene I, was traveling by carriage with his family, including his children, when they were set upon by a group of well-armed and armored men. No one survived. The men escaped. Over time, as they were apprehended, it has become known that they were all members of Captain Rainier’s company. During their trials, each captured man has claimed they had no prior knowledge of whom they were targeting.” Leliana paused and glanced briefly at Josephine, who kept herself angled away. “They say they were only following their Captain’s orders.” 

“That’s…” Meera almost, almost, called it impossible, not Blackwall, her friend and her ally and her shield, but Meera had gone from Circle prisoner to one of the most powerful women in Thedas in a terrible, horrible blink. Nothing, she knew, was truly impossible. “How?” she managed finally when what she wanted to ask was ‘why’? There was never an answer to that, though, not second-hand. And not, she suspected, watching as Josephine drifted away to stare out the window, her normally correct posture bowed, an answer anyone in this room was prepared to accept. 

Leliana spread her hands wide, palms up, a peaceful gesture when her face remained turbulent. “Blackwall was, or is, an actual Grey Warden. How Rainier knew him or came to use his identity has not yet been made clear.” 

“And the hanging?” 

“One of the last men to be apprehended for the Callier massacre, a Lieutenant Mornay, is scheduled to hang in a fortnight.” Leliana grimaced and looked down at the messenger tube in her hand. “Why he would go now when he has not gone in all of these years, I can only begin to imagine.” 

“Some fucking mongrel who doesn’t know how to stay away,” Meera whispered, half to herself. 

“Pardon?” Leliana watched as Meera wrapped her arms around herself over her breasts as if she were cold, her face set in a peculiar expression Leliana couldn’t decipher. 

“It was our last conversation, just the two of us, somewhere along the road on the way back to Skyhold. He told me this…disturbing story about a stray dog some children in his village tormented and then…” Meera swallowed and shivered, picturing it so clearly in her mind, the poor, mangy mutt, desperate for affection and food, the laughing, bored children with nothing better to do than petty, off-handed cruelty. She had to force the rest out, her stomach churning. “Then they tried to strangle it, strung it up by its neck. He asked me what I thought he’d done about it.” She looked back over toward Josephine whose shoulders had gone stiff. “I…told him he’d saved it, of course he had, because he’s Blackwall, that’s what he does.” 

“But he did not.” Josephine’s voice was distant, soft, one of her hands lifting to splay over the colored panes of glass in the window, her palm flat, her fingers slightly curled. “He told me this story.” The hand on the window fisted. “It haunts him, that poor beast’s death.” 

“I thought…I thought it was a metaphor. I thought he was trying, in his own way, to help me understand there’s always damage done, even when you try to do the right thing, the best thing. I thought…” Meera looked from Leliana to Josephine and back again, helpless. “It _was_ a metaphor, but not one meant for me.” 

“He must mean to confess.” Josephine turned from the window, hands clasped before her, her face set in grave, pained grooves but a light shining in her eyes, hope in her voice. “Oh, he means to repent!” She noted the swift look that passed between Leliana and Meera, the speculation in Leliana’s, the concern in Meera’s, but she did not let it stop the thaw slowly happening around her heart. His leaving, abruptly, no word or kiss or sign to her that he was going, the man she’d let into her heart long after she’d let him into her bed, rough and tender and gentle and angry, had frozen her through, the feeling one she’d promised, _promised_ herself, she’d never feel again, not after what had happened in the time before, when she was a bard and unaware of the terrible, awful consequences of her wish for romance and intrigue. She saw it now, though, saw that his leaving had truly been what needed to be done. He kept himself from her, kept his heart locked away, because it wasn’t his, not truly, not yet, to give. But it could be. It _could_ be. 

She went swiftly to Meera, took the Inquisitor’s hands, lifted them to her heart. “Meera. We must help him. We must not let them...” She fumbled for words, she who always had the perfect turn of phrase, who knew the right hand to shake, who could sway nations, and then she whispered, her eyes closing, “I could not bear it.” 

“Then you shall not.” Leliana’s voice was firm but kind, her touch to Josephine’s shoulder gentle, and Josephine released one of Meera’s hands to cover Leliana’s on her shoulder, squeezing in gratitude. They both in turn looked to Meera, Meera who hesitated, wondering if rescuing Blackwall would only lead to more heartache, this man who had lied to them all, who had escaped justice for too long. But she could not deny the mute appeal in Josephine’s eyes, the faint, flickering hope that Blackwall could explain all of this away, a twinkle in his eye, the flash of teeth through his beard. 

“I will go and see what can be done.” 

OoO 

It was a different group than the first who had accompanied Meera to Val Royeaux.  


She’d tasked Varric and Cassandra with staying behind to watch over the still-fuming Bianca, mostly out of spite, and left Cole and Solas together to continue working on the problem of Cole’s vulnerability to being bound. It wasn’t a minor concern for Meera but one she felt ill-equipped to handle, her understanding of Cole as a manifested spirit still nebulous, and leaving it in Solas’s capable and knowledgeable hands seemed the wisest course of action. Vivienne and Fiona had their heads together about something in the mage’s tower and Meera had learned it was best to steer clear if she didn’t wish to find herself embroiled in a discussion of politics or lectured within an inch about her ‘close association’ with Cullen. So Sera, Dorian, and Iron Bull agreed to pack up and go with her, Dorian with his usual good cheer and a hope for better wine, Sera under the condition they would check in on some Red Jenny operatives, Iron Bull with the mention of supplies that had Dorian’s face turning cherry red and which had Cullen riding beside the Qunari in the column. She’d asked her Commander to accompany them out of the wholly selfish reason she wasn’t quite ready to be away from him, their reunion too new and precious; his presence had the added bonuses of giving their errand some military legitimacy and mollifying Josephine who had been left behind out of both necessity and protection. 

“Why, I think Commander Studly is asking Bull about whips and chains! What _have_ you two been getting up to in that tower?” Dorian expected, hoped, to see Meera’s blush and was rewarded amply as her cheeks washed with color. He did not expect to see her shoot an intrigued, hopeful glance back at her Commander, one Cullen returned with a lifted golden brow and a knowing smirk. Dorian coughed to cover his surprise and Meera reached across from her horse’s back to pat his hand lightly. 

“Are you concerned for my maidenly virtue, Dorian?” she teased, her laughter slightly subdued when Dorian crossed his eyes at her and made a comical face. “Relax, cousin, I promise not to play naughty apostate until Cullen and I are in our own room at the inn.” 

“Ooooo, are we talking about Cully-Wully and sweets doing the business?” Sera looked torn between interest and disgust as she joined the conversation, her nuggalope nudging happily at Shartan who whickered in greeting and nudged right back. Dorian’s horse sniffed regally and turned her face away; he had to gently tug on the reins to stop her from falling back. She really _did_ dislike the nuggalope. “Lots of men under him. Needs a woman over him. Because positions.” Sera wiggled her eyebrows, Meera looked thoughtful, and Dorian sputtered as he had a sudden, vivid picture of the tall, muscular Commander bound wrists and ankles. 

“Stop picturing me naked, Dorian.” 

The sound Dorian made was a manly sound, not a shriek, no, not anywhere close to a shriek as Cullen’s mount cantered up, insinuating itself between Dorian’s and Shartan. Meera’s laugh was closer to her usual bright, cheerful sound as Dorian muttered a curse, shot Cullen a look halfway between panic and longing, and then reined in his horse, encouraging her to fall back. Sera rolled her eyes and slowed her mount, as well, mouthing, “Girl on top, Meems!” so both Cullen and Meera couldn’t help but read her lips. 

“This is what happens when everyone knows our private business,” Cullen said dramatically, a tinge of red at the tips of his ears, and Meera grinned, enjoying both his discomfiture and the warm tingle of his regard. 

“They tease because they care.” At Cullen’s snort, she maneuvered so her knee bumped against his, leaning across and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial half-whisper, “Should we let Sera know your desk is sturdier than she thinks?” 

Cullen’s laughter was husky and low, for her ears only, his hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of hair, shining in the sunlight, behind her ear. “Let’s not. We would be likely to find her sneaking into my office unannounced, trying to catch us in the act.” 

“Oh, you mean like yesterday when Jim opened the door while we were having lunch?” 

Cullen shook his head mournfully at Meera’s innocent glance, touching the tip of her nose with his fingertip. “A few moments sooner and he would have caught me enjoying an entirely different delicacy.” He leaned in closer, brushed his lips across her cheekbone, let his hand trail down between them until it lay over one of her breasts, gently squeezing the soft flesh through her layers. “You tasted better than the soup.” 

Her whimper and arch had him shifting in the saddle, as did the hand she dropped to his thigh. He searched with his thumb until he found her nipple, flicking it quickly until it tightened, and nearly groaned as she traced the seam where his leg joined his body. He kissed her, quick and hard, then leaned back just a little, his grin rueful and hungry. “This is getting out of hand. I want to drag you out of the saddle and take you in the grass.” 

“Yes, please,” she agreed but she eased back as well, making a little distance between them. For a time they rode in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until Meera admitted, 

“I’m afraid we’re making a mistake.” 

She’d not dared to voice the sentiment in Josephine’s hearing, the Inquisition’s Ambassador already brittle and sharp, caught on the jagged edges of hope and love, and it pained her now to think of her friend clutching her hands as they left, not quite but almost begging to bring Blackwall home. Here, though, with Cullen who reached across and took her hand, she let the doubt show. He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her palm and then curled his own around it, his thumb drawing circles on her skin. 

“Sweetheart, it’s all right if you aren’t sure you can forgive him.” 

“Stop reading my thoughts.” She said it without rancor, however, and with a pensive, pinched expression Cullen disliked intensely. Rainier’s betrayal had far-reaching consequences. Separate from Josephine’s private life, she had followed his suggestion to utilize the ancient Grey Warden treaties, pressuring Ferelden, Orlais, Starkhaven, even Ostwick and others into sending them gold and recruits, armor and weapons, stone and wood. Cullen and Leliana had made ample use of every person and supply with Meera’s open and public support; as a consequence, the desertions and the letters demanding recompense had already begun. Rescuing Rainier, even if they put him on trial as Leliana was urging, was only going to cause more harm to the Inquisition. And none of it, not the loss of good soldiers or the rationing of food or the snarling nobles, burned Cullen quite so much as the sharp jut to Meera’s chin, the doubt that colored her eyes, the strain he heard in every word they shared about Rainier. His lies, his deceit, they were wounds Meera was doing her level-best to hide, to tuck away, and that meant Meera was withdrawing, dipping into that deep well of reserve which was her own sort of shield against pain. 

It wouldn’t stand, he thought viciously, and was glad he didn’t have Rainier within striking distance at just that moment. 

He held her hand until they reached the first signs of civilization, releasing her reluctantly so that she might move into the center of the column, protected and prominent. 

And alone. 

OoO 

She was stone-faced when the guard led her back out of the prison, stone-faced and pale, her long, dark, curling lashes clumped and wet, and Cullen wanted nothing more than to sweep her up and carry her to the inn, to keep her safe from prying eyes and harsh whispers, to tuck her into him until she lost the blank, terrifying look in her eyes. As soon as he touched her, a gloved hand lightly on the small of her back, and felt how she trembled, Cullen swallowed back a sharp curse and started away from her, toward the cell block. 

Only to have Meera shake her head, her own hand gripping his gauntlet until her leather gloves strained over her knuckles, creaking in protest. Her voice ground across Cullen’s already raw nerves, clogged with the vestiges of her tears. “I have to meet with Celene’s representative.” He heard her breath hitch, felt her muscles bunch as she fought back her own emotions. 

“Inquisitor,” he barked warningly, helplessly, constrained from comforting her as a lover by the rules of military and Chantry and Inquisition protocol and by the guards watching them avidly, bound by his own rigid code of honor while they were in public and by the stiff set of her shoulders as she turned away from him, her fingers sliding away. It felt like dismissal. 

Meera, the hurt bone deep and aching, paused in the doorway, one foot over the threshold, and allowed herself the one piece of comfort she could take, the one she could give, Cullen standing silent and still and frustrated behind her. She was the Inquisitor but she was a woman, too, and she did not have to deny one to continue to be the other. She did not turn to look over her shoulder at him, though, because if she did she would break apart into pieces, the truth of what Thom Rainier had done, who he was, disgusting and slick on her skin. “I require your presence, Commander.” 

“As you say,” he agreed, clearing his throat, and it was all Meera could do not to sag against him as he stepped up to her side, his hand once more a comforting weight at her back. 

And there he remained, a solid, calming presence through the afternoon negotiations that stretched long into the late evening, the innkeeper bringing candles and then supper and finally wine and port as Celene’s representative demanded concessions and boons that Meera not only would not but could not grant. It was nearly midnight when a deal was finally struck that left, in Bull’s words, “Everyone feelin’ like they got fucked.” 

No one laughed. 

Once the door to their room had closed behind them, Meera simply turned into Cullen, leaning into him as he curled protectively over her. “Be with me,” she entreated, her voice cracking as her breathing ruffled the fur of his mantle. 

Cullen meant to be gentle with her, expecting her to be fragile, to need soothing kisses and soft touches, and instead found a wildcat, bruises blooming on them both as cloth ripped, nipping and licking and battling him for a dominance he ceded with a gasp of her name as she rose above him, her hair cascading around them, autumn leaves washed into ash grey in the moonlight, a sweet, painful echo of the first time she’d invaded and soothed his nightmares. “Maker, Meera,” he groaned, arching beneath her as she swirled her hips, as she dipped down and licked the salt of his sweat from his collarbone before sinking her teeth into his skin, the pain mingling with the pleasure of her slick wet heat around his cock. 

“Be with me,” she said, again, an order, a plea as she reached over his head and grasped the headboard, her plump nipples brushing his lips a temptation he didn’t resist, sucking first one and then the other into his mouth to lave with his tongue, one hand on her hip, the other moving between them to find her, circling the swollen, sensitive bud of her clit. 

“I’m with you,” he promised breathlessly and it was true as they both tumbled into ecstasy together, truer still as they cuddled together afterward, her eyes clear as she pressed a long, gentle, languid kiss to his lips. “I’m with you.” 

OoO 

Thom Rainier was released into the Inquisition’s custody two days later. He flinched back from the sunlight and from Meera’s calm, patient regard, the memory of her tears and disappointment still fresh and bitter, knowing more and worse waited for him back at Skyhold, a lonely bed and a broken heart when there had been warmth and light before. “Shoulda left me to rot,” he muttered. 

“Perhaps,” she agreed equably, folding her hands at her waist as if in prayer, and Blackwall felt goosebumps race up his arms as she continued in that same even, patient, matter-of-fact tone, “Your fate, however, is now mine to decide, for good or ill.” Something in her expression softened, the gentle girl peeking out from the powerful Inquisitor. It was little comfort. “If you were me, Captain Rainier, what would you do with the rest of your life?” 

They left him alone to wrestle with and to brood over the impossible question for the whole of the journey home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me on this almost two month hiatus.


	26. Transfigurations 12.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transfigurations 12.3:  
>  _My Maker, know my heart:_  
>  _Take from me a life of sorrow._  
>  _Lift me from a world of pain._  
>  _Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._

_Meera,_

_I am honored to receive your invitation for continued correspondence between us. I wish, however, that our first discussion must not center around such an unsavory and difficult topic. Of course, life has rarely considered our wishes (perhaps Commander and King aside)._

_I feel you have two options._

_One is to make him exactly what he has all these years claimed to be, a Grey Warden. Make no mistake, if you choose to send him to the Wardens, he will join or he will perish. Once joined it is for life, a shortened, difficult life, especially in light of the recent difficulties at Adamant, the continued silence from Weisshaupt, and what you have learned of the Calling. It is also a life of heroic service. The Wardens take their oaths seriously. Such a life may be what he has been seeking by masquerading as a Warden. From a more practical standpoint, their numbers are greatly diminished and though the bards will tell you numbers did not win against the Ferelden Blight, I did not single-handedly deliver all of Thedas. If I had been able to number_ _a hundred_ _more men before I spent a year gathering dwarves and mages and the like, even men such as your Rainier, perhaps we would not have lost quite so many Fereldens as we did._

_Two is to forgive and is the more complicated and surely more difficult choice. From your description of his actions in regard to you personally, his service to the Inquisition, and his surrender to the authorities in Orlais, it would seem the man truly regrets his past misdeeds. Redemption, however, doesn’t always follow forgiveness, most especially if the sinner can’t forgive_ _himself_ _the sin. He may never be able to embrace what you can offer him, may never be able to make more of himself than what he is now, broken and sorry_ _and grieving for the man he could have been_ _. It may be that granting him freedom will only tighten his chains. Be that as it may, I will offer you a bit of wisdom from some long-dead Chantry philosopher:_

To err is human, to forgive, divine. 

_He may not see the wisdom in forgiveness but I think you and I_ _do. In fact, I believe you and I_ _must_ _._

_There are no easy choices in these roles we’ve had thrust upon us._

_My King, who is at the moment pouting because the children have bested him in a game of lawn darts, sends his regards._

_Respectfully,_

_-A. Regina_

OoO 

_Quizzy,_

_Weisshaupt was not my kind of_ _place_ _. It was fucking cold, for one thing, and for another, no one listened to me there. Blighted assholes._

_I ran away. I bet if you send_ ~~_Blackw_ ~~ _the bearded guy, he will, too._

_Seriously, though, the Wardens up there are a bunch of dicks and not in a good way. Don’t make him suffer more than he already does having to take care of your ass (which is a very, very fine ass)._

_Miss me and tell Varric to stop stealing all your money at Wicked Grace,_

_-H._

_P.S. He still sleeps more hours than he’s awake but when he is awake, he’s more himself each time. Grateful_ _doesn’t begin to cover it_ _._

OoO 

“He didn’t do right, right? He zigged and he shoulda zagged and he gave it to the bigs but not the right bigs or for the good reasons and not the bad ones, but now he’s trying to be better, yeah? Don’t give ‘im up.” 

Meera took the offered cookie, burnt around the edges, soggy in the middle, and leaned her head onto Sera’s shoulder to watch Iron Bull and Cassandra spar below them in the yard, she and the elf’s feet dangling together over the edge of the roof. 

OoO 

“Darling, it is imperative that the Inquisition show no favoritism. Of course he has been helpful and gallant and a host of quite lovely things while he has been with us. That does not excuse his past bad behavior. He must be held accountable. Who better than we to do so?” 

Vivienne’s hand was a featherlight weight on Meera’s shoulder but her eyes were dark and deep. 

OoO 

Cole curled his long, pale fingers around her arm, tugging awkwardly until they were aligned, side by side on the stairs to her quarters, his hair tumbled into his face, the eye she could see glowing strangely in the half light from the candles. She shivered as he opened his mouth and then closed it, shuffled his feet, and then exhaled noisily, a surprisingly human sound. 

“The name breaks free, pulls the pain with it. A black wall to shield the self when the sky is rainier.” He shook his head, sharply. “I want to help. He wants to help. If he is wrong, I am wrong.” He gulped, another loud, jarring sound from the normally noiseless boy, and Meera rubbed her hand up his arm. He flinched, eyelids and eyebrows, and then he threw his arms around her and squeezed, hard. 

OoO 

“Opinions, Princess, are like assholes.” Varric smirked as Meera’s arrow went wide, wider than her usual terrible aim, thunking dully into the grass yards away from where it needed to go. “Gotta be prepared to be distracted. Try again.” He patted her companionably on her back, his smirk spreading into a laugh as she huffed and glared at him but lifted the bow once more to her cheek. “Anyway, opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one and everyone thinks their neighbors’ smells like shit.” 

“And yours?” she asked, pulling back on the bowstring, squinting down the field at the straw target with the painted bullseye. 

“No matter where he came from, he’s here now. Sometimes, that’s all you got.” 

The bow twanged, a high, sweet note. 

The straw burst into flames. 

OoO 

_Magister Gareon Alexius for apostasy, attempted enslavement, attempted assassination_ _of the Inquisitor_ _: service to the magisters of the Inquisition_

_Chief Movran the Under for animal endangerment and threats against the Inquisitor: exiled* to Tevinter._

_Mayor Gregory Dedrick of Crestwood for murder and gross negligence by a public official: death._

_Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons for treason: hard labor._

_Magister Livius Erimond for attempted enslavement, bearing false witness, serving a false prophet: Grey Warden justice._

_Ser Ruth for murder (blood sacrifice): innocent._

_-L._

OoO 

“Boss, I’ve done worse. Would do worse, if I wasn’t Tal-Vashoth.” Bull shrugged, a quick, uneasy movement of his shoulders as Meera peered at him with beetled brows and a not-quite-sober expression, her elbow nudging his companionably on the bar. No one else was around; they’d closed the place down hours ago with Bull’s bellow of, “Out, right now, all you fuckers, out!” 

No one wanted to argue with a man with horns, even if he did have a bum knee. 

“There’s orders, there’s loyalty, and then there’s friendship. Ain’t easy when they try to run over each other.” He watched her tip back her mug, chuckled a little when she licked toward her chin at the drops that tried to escape, gold and bitter. “Let’s get you another, killer.” 

OoO 

Dorian grunted as his staff went skittering away, darting just out of reach as Meera advanced on him, her staff held defensively after the overhand strike that left his hand smarting. Calculating angles and trajectories as fast as possible, he dove to the left, his fingertips grazing his staff just in time to see her marked hand flicker to life in a gesture he recognized with a swear and a yelp and a dirty, weak shield that shattered with the force of her fireball. Her little grin was triumphant and sly as the ground beneath him began to quiver and heat. Dorian bucked, rolled, and arced lightning from his fingertips, hissing when the purple sparks fizzled inches from Meera, dissipated by her own, stronger barrier. 

The feint worked. The Templar standing as his partner whirled, slashed, and Meera stumbled forward, her knees taken neatly from beneath her as her own Templar remained still as a statue, caught in Dorian’s static cage. 

“As I said, dear heart, you can’t save the whole world.” He released the Templar with an airy wave as Meera sprawled backward into the dust, groaning. 

OoO 

Morrigan flicked at a leaf on the plant Meera was currently babying, only half-listening as the girl dug in the dirt and hummed tunelessly to herself. The sun was weak, covered by skittering clouds that promised sleet before the day was done, and only the two women continued to brave the icy winds outside Skyhold, Meera for her straggling garden and Morrigan because she remained curious about this young woman thrust so hastily into leadership, this young, powerful mage who commanded fierce loyalty and inspired blind faith despite, and sometimes _because_ of, her magical gifts. 

Morrigan refused to believe she was jealous even as her own son talked nonstop about “Meera the brave and true”. Children’s foolishness, easily bought with a few sugarplums and sweet words. She was not so easily swayed and yet… 

“The more you do for others, the more they will expect from you,” she heard herself say. Morrigan had to resist the urge to run her hand over the Inquisitor’s suddenly bowed head. 

OoO 

“Good, yes?” 

“Mmmm,” Meera agreed absently, staring down at her plate. An unidentified glob of a meatlike substance rolled under a carrot and she jabbed at it with her fork, ignoring the affronted glance from Cassandra when she set it daintily aside in her napkin. It had been Cass’s turn to pick the menu and while Meera liked the rich brown sauce and hearty vegetables, she did not like the texture of whatever animal had been sacrificed on the altar of Inquisition bellies. She felt Cullen nudge her shin with his boot under the table and glanced up in time to see him take a huge bite, his eyes twinkling devilishly at her. 

“It’s bear, isn’t it?” she asked, setting down her utensils with a clatter. “You told me it wasn’t but it really is, isn’t it, that big dumb one that Dorian kept teasing until it tried to maul us.” 

“No,” Cassandra said at the same time Cullen swallowed and nodded. 

“I hate both of you,” Meera sulked, crossing her arms over her breasts and refusing to be placated by Cullen’s hand squeezing her thigh under the table. 

“Not nice being lied to, is it?” Cassandra said smartly, but she smiled when Meera shot her a glare. 

OoO 

“I don’t bend like that, Cullen!” 

“Shh, sweetheart, just lean…no, no, the other … Meera!” There was a gasp, a loud scrape of heavy furniture over a wooden floor, a deep masculine sound that could have been pleasure or exasperation, a heavy thud, and then Jim and Sera made equally-disgusted faces as they beat a hasty retreat from the door to Cullen’s tower, the sounds from within definitely not meant for public consumption. 

Inside, Cullen and Meera were tangled in a heap on the floor, the book he’d tried to help her get down from a tall shelf ripped neatly in two, one half in Cullen’s hand along Meera’s back, the other in Meera’s hand trapped between their bodies. He moaned to ensure their audience had retreated, loud and lewd, and Meera had to sink her teeth into the muscle of his chest to muffle her giggles. He nuzzled her temple and then couldn’t resist peppering her face with kisses when she couldn’t seem to stop laughing, rolling over so she was tucked neatly beneath him. He continued the pecks, nose, eyebrows, chin, cheeks, until she’d finally calmed enough he could steal her breath, and the remaining merriment, with his mouth, a slow, thorough kiss that had them both sighing out when it ended. 

“I love you,” she whispered, lifting her fingers to comb through his hair, the curls he rarely bothered to tame since she’d told him they were beautiful winding about her fingers. 

“I love you, too,” he returned, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones, his eyes glowing cat-amber in the thin light from the windows. “But that book isn’t going to have any answers in it.” 

Meera scraped her nails lightly over his scalp, then again when he made a low almost-purr in the back of his throat and rubbed his dark gold afternoon stubble against her neck “Well, no, not now that we ripped it in two,” she agreed equably but her gaze drifted over his shoulder and clouded. 

Determined and sympathetic, Cullen nipped at the lobe of her ear, his fingers already loosening the belt at her waist. “Let me distract you,” he demanded, finding her skin warm and supple and soft, and she surrendered with a hitch of breath, her eyes fluttering closed. 

OoO 

Josephine set down her delicate china cup, her finger tracing the rim. She didn’t lift her eyes from the cup, from the slow, careful circle she was making, around and around and around again. After a few moments, Meera reached across and took Josephine’s hand in her own and squeezed. 

Josephine squeezed back but, still, she didn’t look up. The tea grew cold between them. 

OoO 

“Others talk of politics when you are a woman of faith, a child of the Chant.” Giselle’s voice drifted over Meera where she knelt before the altar of Andraste in the small chapel, a soothing lilt. “You were chosen by the Maker. Walk in his, in _her_ , shadow.” 

Meera reached out and touched the hem of Andraste’s robe, her fingers scraping across the cold stone. 

OoO 

“Is it selfish of me to want to forgive the unforgivable? To want to continue to care about someone who has betrayed me, and what I believe in, so thoroughly?” 

Solas’s brush stuttered, a line meant to be thin and elegant turning into a dark, heavy slash. 

He stilled, listening to the creak as Meera resettled into her chair, able to picture her without turning, her legs crossed and tucked underneath her, her back bent, chin propped on her fists, elbows propped on her thighs. A most indecorous pose, terrible for her back, ill-befitting the leader of a small army bent on saving the world, and yet he knew if he turned, if he looked at her, she would still manage to exude the calming comfort and shining, incandescent light that had nothing, and yet perhaps everything, to do with her role as savior. 

Meera Trevelyan, he suspected, had most likely always been more than she seemed. 

“No,” he said finally, his brush falling away from the wall. “No, my friend. That would be just like you.” 

OoO 

Meera sat atop her gilt and garish throne, legs crossed primly at the ankle and tucked neatly to the side, her stomach knotted and tense, her fingers clamped so tightly together in her lap that her knuckles were white with the strain, and her face as placid and still as she could make it. Thom Rainier looked up at her, his eyes as bleak and as grey as a winter storm. To her right she heard Josephine’s quill tapping anxiously on her parchment. Beyond Blackwall was a sea of faces, some friendly, some hostile, some simply curious, all waiting to see how the mighty Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, would judge this traitor among them. 

He was already angry with her for using her influence with Empress Celene to have him released into her custody, already outraged that she had saved him from the fate he’d finally accepted. Already resigned to accept whatever she thought he deserved for he had refused to speak to her since they’d returned to Skyhold, turned his back on her when she visited him in the cells, and had no answer for the question she’d asked him so many days ago. 

She hadn’t been sure, herself, until she’d seen him brought before her in chains once more, if she had an answer. It was there, though, inside of her, and her voice rang through the hall, “You have your freedom.” 

Everyone, including Thom, gaped. “It cannot be as simple as that,” he denied but she had not missed how his eyes flicked to Josephine and then away, the little gasp from her Ambassador, the complete and utter silence that otherwise filled the hall. Something deep inside her loosened. 

It wasn’t that simple because he wasn’t a simple man. “I barely know him,” he grumbled when she decreed he must atone as the man he was, not the man he’d pretended to be but, in the end, he did what she’d hoped, what she’d prayed, he’d do: “My sword is yours.” 

“No, Thom,” she said gently, rising from her seat. The guards at Thom’s side made a move to block her but she stopped them with a gesture, palm upraised, and then she lifted that palm until it lay against the rough beard covering Thom’s cheek, until her fingertips found the vulnerable, parchment thin skin under his eye. “Your sword is yours.” 

“My lady,” he whispered and she smiled, felt it fill up her eyes, dimple her cheeks as a weight slid from her shoulders, from her heart. 

“Take your post, Thom Rainier.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm sorry I keep making you wait for chapters.


End file.
